The night flight back to Lecce had landed just after ten.
Bodies sluggish, eyes barely open, the players had spilled off the plane like survivors of so unseen battle. Even the airport’s fluorescent lighting seed too harsh for them. The jokes were quieter now, the swagger replaced with a more modest shuffle. Luggage wheels squeaked softly over polished floors. What energy had carried them through the chaos of the San Siro, the post-match pressers, the rollercoasters, and the bumper cars had finally run dry, sowhere between passport control and the tarmac.
Alex didn’t say much.
He had nodded his goodbyes, exchanged a few tired smiles, but by the ti he stepped through the front door of his apartnt, words felt like too much effort. His suitcase landed sowhere between the hallway and the living room. His coat barely made it onto the hook by the door before sliding off. Shoes were kicked aside.
He collapsed into bed like a man who had been running from sothing and had finally stopped.
And for once, sleep swallowed him instantly. No tossing, no midnight thoughts, no tactical replays in his head.
No dreams either.
Just silence.
Oddly, it wasn’t exhaustion that woke him.
The sun hadn’t even fully risen. Morning was still stretching its arms across Lecce’s skyline, soft pink light bleeding through the edges of the curtains. But Alex’s eyes opened on their own, blinking up at the ceiling like his body had betrayed him.
He lay there for a mont, arms spread across the mattress, listening.
Silence.
No notifications. No buzzing. No urgent phone calls from staff or agents or journalists. No match looming over the horizon. No lineup to finalize. No ultras breathing down his neck.
It should have been a luxury.
But his mind was already humming. Restless.
He sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and stared at the sunlight leaking in.
There was one thing he couldn’t shake. One thought that had wrapped itself around his brain and refused to let go.
Transfers.
Even with the win. Even with the high. Even after all the joy and madness of the past forty-eight hours, a quiet voice in the back of his head whispered the sa thing over and over again.
This squad still needs more.
He shuffled over to the small desk near the window. The sa desk he had used to plan out set-piece routines. The sa one littered with notebooks, pens, highlighters, printouts, and a coffee-stained coaster that had once been white.
He grabbed a pen, flipped open a fresh page in a notebook, and sighed.
"Let’s get ahead of the ga," he muttered, writing the word targets at the top of the page in block letters.
His focus was clear. He needed good value-for-money teenagers. Players who could play behind the striker in his 4-4-2. Soone with flair, but discipline. Technique, but work rate. He needed hybrids. Second strikers who could also slot into attacking midfield without losing structure. Not too expensive. Not too raw.
But after about twenty minutes of jotting nas, crossing so out, and staring at a blank portion of the page like it had personally offended him, frustration started to creep in.
He leaned back in his chair and muttered, "System, could you please help with good value for money second striker and attacking midfielder hybrids that cost less than ten million euros?"
There was silence.
Of course there was silence.
"I thought s-"
[Ding! System has finished drafting scouting reports]
Alex sat up straight.
There it was. That familiar chi. That unmistakable little bell, like the sound of a slot machine landing on sothing miraculous.
He blinked once, then smiled.
"Thank you."
[Scouting Recomndations:]
[Roony Bardghji (F.C. Copenhagen, 18) — Left-footed right winger/attacking midfielder. Strong dribbler, powerful shot. Estimated value: €6M.]
[Oscar Gloukh (Red Bull Salzburg, 19) — Central attacking midfielder, excellent vision and link-up play. Estimated value: €8M.]
[Tommaso Baldanzi (Empoli, 20) — Advanced playmaker with low center of gravity, elegant footwork. Estimated value: €7M.]
[Sverre Nypan (Rosenborg, 17) — Raw but intelligent, good spatial awareness for his age. Estimated value: €3M.]
[Ismail Bouneb (Jong PSV, 20) — Second striker with good movent, flair, and poacher instincts. Estimated value: €1.5M.]
[Matija Popovic (Partizan Belgrade, 18) — Physically mature, good in transitions. Estimated value: €2M.]
Alex let out a breath, sitting up in his chair and scanning the list as more data stread across his mind.
Each na was detailed. trics. Tactical fit. Current usage. Projected developnt. Personality red flags. Even small insights, like whether a player liked to cut in and shoot or if they preferred ghosting into pockets between the lines.
He stopped at Bardghji and snorted.
"These are fucking FM wonderkids," he muttered to himself, laughing quietly.
He tapped on Gloukh’s ntal profile, letting the visual cues drift into focus—short bursts of dribbling, his ability to float between lines, the quick slip passes that tore through compact shapes. He watched a ntal replay of one particular move. Gloukh dancing between two midfielders and threading a diagonal ball through two defenders.
"You’re definitely on the list," he whispered.
He flipped to a clean page in the notebook and started jotting nas, circling so and underlining others.
Bardghji
Gloukh
Baldanzi (Too expensive?)
Nypan (One for the future)
Bouneb
Popovic
It wasn’t a long list.
But it was a start.
Alex leaned back in his chair, pen twirling between his fingers. He looked out the window.
The sky was beginning to brighten properly now. Warm yellow sunlight chased the pink away, brushing gently against the rooftops of Lecce. A car passed below. A cyclist rolled by. Sowhere, a church bell rang twice.
07:43.
Still early. Still quiet.
He stood, stretching slightly, the ache in his lower back reminding him that even footballers who retired early didn’t get to skip the price of ti.
A breeze drifted through the open window, lifting the edge of the curtain.
Alex took one last look at the list on his desk.
"No rest for the wicked," he murmured, "and definitely no rest for mid-table Serie A sides punching above their weight."
He took a quick shower, the water waking up the last parts of him that sleep hadn’t. Got dressed in comfortable training gear. A Lecce polo. Track pants. Pulled on his jacket, slung his keys over one finger, and stepped out the door.
The elevator was quiet. The hallway, too.
It was one of those mornings where the city felt like it was still dreaming.
But Alex wasn’t.
He was already locked in.
There was no match to prepare for today. No opposition to scout. No tactical drills to rehearse. But they had missed a full training day. The Inter-Milan trip had cost them rhythm. Montum was a fragile thing, and he’d seen it slip through teams like sand between fingers.
He wouldn’t let that happen.
As he stepped into the car and turned the ignition, the radio flickered on. A host was discussing last night’s Coppa D’itallia. results.
They didn’t ntion Lecce.
Or maybe he tuned in late. There was no way they would gloss over such a match.
But even if they did...
That was fine.
Let them sleep on his team. Let them underestimate.
He pulled out onto the street, heading toward the training ground.
Let them all think the magic was done.
Alex Walker had seen enough to know that magic was just the beginning.
It was ti to build sothing lasting.
And the next step was waiting.
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