The next morning arrived far too early.
Or at least, that was how it felt for everyone on Lecce’s squad.
The early hours crept in like a thief, silent and rciless, dragging sore bodies and foggy minds out of bed. Celebration, it turned out, had a price. And while none of the players regretted the laughter, the dancing, or the fizzy Gatorade toasts, it made waking up feel like an extre sport. One by one, the players trickled out of their rooms, faces puffy from sleep, hair in chaos, voices raw from yelling.
Normally, they would have already been on a flight by now, heading back to Lecce with stiff necks and airplane breakfasts. That had been the original plan. Early morning flight, back in town by lunch, training the next day.
But soti around midnight, while watching Banda perform a slow-motion cannonball into the hotel pool, Alex had sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and muttered the words that saved them all.
"We’re not flying in the morning."
The travel staff, already watching the players slip into what could only be described as post-match delirium, nodded in relief and quietly reshuffled the schedule. The flight would now leave that evening. That ant one full day in Milan.
Alex figured they might as well use it.
By nine-thirty, the team had assembled in the hotel’s restaurant. Soone had reserved a private section just for them. Two large circular tables sat near the windows, where soft sunlight poured in through sheer curtains. The room was filled with the sounds of scraping forks, half-laughs, the clink of glass, and the occasional groan as soone sat too fast.
Staff and players sat together for once. Not just physically, but socially. There were no assigned seats, no careful separations. The table was chaos in the best way. Soone was showing highlights from last night’s ga on their phone. Banda was arguing that he should have been given a penalty "on vibes alone." Even the quietest of the squad looked a little more alive with food in their stomachs and caffeine in their veins.
Alex took a sip of his second coffee and tapped the side of his mug with his spoon.
"Alright," he said, glancing around the table, "since we’re not flying till evening, we’re doing sothing different. Team bonding exercise. And no, that doesn’t an more laps."
"An to that," muttered Gallo, who was still rubbing sleep from his eyes like a toddler forced to attend school on a Saturday.
"Where are we going?" Dorgu asked, clearly suspicious.
Alex just smiled. "You’ll see."
It turned out to be an amusent park.
Not the biggest in Italy, not the one with record-breaking coasters or sprawling water rides, but a solid, well-kept park with just enough flair to distract a group of elite athletes for a few hours. The crowd was light, weekday mornings had that advantage. Families with toddlers, a few tourists, and now, a squad of half-awake footballers who moved like they had been dropped into a reality show.
The players split naturally into groups. Banda and Dorgu made a beeline for the spinning teacups, dragging Helgason with them against his will. Pongracic was already looking for the shooting gas. Gallo spotted the drop tower and imdiately started working up the courage to ride it.
Alex stood near the entrance, sunglasses on, cap low, hands in the pockets of his jacket. He had seen these kinds of bonding trips go both ways. Sotis they helped. Sotis they beca fodder for tabloid drama. So far, things looked promising.
Until it started.
It was subtle at first. A kid, probably twelve, glanced at Alex while holding a balloon, his face scrunching up like he was trying to solve a riddle. He leaned toward his father, whispered sothing, and the man turned.
"Excuse ," the man said, voice caught sowhere between curiosity and awe. "Are you... Alex Walker?"
Alex tried to smile. "Yeah. That’s ."
The man lit up, reached for his phone. "Would you mind?"
Alex nodded, posed, even ruffled the boy’s hair. It felt normal. Harmless.
Then another fan approached.
Then two more.
Then the security guy managing the Ferris wheel walked over, asking if he was the sa Alex Walker who had scored that goal against Barcelona while playing for Real Madrid.
Alex chuckled nervously and backed away.
By the ti he reached one of the gift shops, he had officially gone from coach-on-holiday to walking attraction.
He ducked into the store, grabbed a cap, a pair of oversized sunglasses, and, because it felt appropriately ridiculous, a black nose mask.
As he paid, the vendor tilted her head.
"You are Alex Walker, right?" she asked, eyes twinkling.
Alex groaned, half-laughing. "I was trying not to be."
She laughed with him, slid the items across the counter, and said, "On the house. But only if I get a selfie."
He obliged.
As he stepped out, now disguised like a tourist trying to hide from the paparazzi, a familiar voice piped up beside him.
"Being famous must be so annoying."
He turned to see Isabella walking toward him, a lemon soda in one hand and a sunhat perched perfectly atop her head. She wore a light linen blouse and rolled-up jeans, and she looked nothing like the press officer who usually carried three phones and a clipboard. She looked... free.
Alex gave a helpless shrug. "You get used to it. Eventually, you beco soone they used to watch."
"That’s very humble of you," she teased. "You an to say you used to be famous? You literally had to go undercover."
He chuckled. "Fa is like a long-range screar. Feels amazing when it hits, but it’s rarely sustainable."
Isabella laughed, sipping from her drink. They fell into step together, walking past churro stands and cotton candy machines, past laughing kids and wandering mascots in oversized suits.
"So," she asked gently, "how are you feeling after last night?"
Alex let out a breath, his smile thoughtful. "Relieved, mostly. And weirdly calm. I should be riding a high, but I think I’m just... tired. In a good way. Like my mind finally stopped racing."
"The boys adore you," she said, glancing sideways. "You know that, right?"
"They don’t always show it. Mostly, they tease in the group chat."
"That’s their love language," she said, grinning.
They kept walking, the world moving gently around them. It wasn’t often that Alex got to stroll through sowhere like this without a schedule. No post-match obligations, no film sessions or tactical breakdowns. Just space. Just her.
"You know," Isabella said, her voice lighter now, "it’s kind of funny seeing you like this. You’re usually so... intense."
"I’m always intense. Even as a player. Ask anyone who shared a locker room with . I used to lecture people for not tracking back."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It was. But it got here."
She looked at him curiously. "Do you miss it? Being a player, I an."
Alex nodded. "Every damn day. I miss the noise, the tension, the feeling of your boot hitting the ball just right. But managing... it’s sothing else. When it works, when your ideas co to life on the pitch... it’s magic."
"You’re good at it."
"Thanks. I’m just trying not to ss it up."
"You’re not," she said, and took another sip of her drink. "You’re doing better than fine."
Alex let the complint settle. He wasn’t used to praise that wasn’t about his past life. Hearing it now, in this quiet, unexpected place, felt heavier sohow.
He looked around the park again. The rollercoasters were whirring. Kids scread with delight. Sowhere nearby, soone dropped a hot dog and imdiately began to weep.
"Weird place to reflect on life, huh?" he said.
"It fits," Isabella replied, her tone warm. "Football is just like this, really. Ups and downs. Screams and near misses. But if you’re lucky, there’s laughter in between."
Alex looked at her then. Not like a colleague. Not even like soone he was growing fond of.
He looked at her like soone who got it.
"Thanks for today," he said.
"You should be thanking . I haven’t forced you onto a ride yet."
"Yet," he repeated, eyes narrowing.
She smiled. They kept walking, disappearing into the pulse of the park.
It wasn’t romantic, not quite.
But it didn’t need to be.
It was real.
And in the chaotic world of football, that was rare enough.
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