The chairman’s office sat perched at the top of Lecce’s administrative wing. Modest, like everything else about the club. No marble floors or golden crests, no flashy lighting or pretentious artwork. Just clean lines, soft-colored walls, a few frad jerseys, and the hum of a building that knew exactly who it was and what it had to offer.
But the view, that was sothing else.
Through a long, narrow window behind the chairman’s desk, you could see the entire training complex laid out like a chessboard. Two pitches. A fitness annex. And beyond them, the city stretching to et the sea.
Alex Walker walked in still sweating from late-afternoon drills, his Lecce tracksuit jacket slung over his shoulder, hair damp, body sore, but his mind sharp. There was a tightness in his chest he hadn’t fully shaken since the ssage buzzed on his phone.
Chairman Saverio Giannotta was already seated at the round table in the corner of the room, hands resting on the polished surface, posture as still and composed as ever. Late fifties, hair mostly gray but well-kept, face naturally stern though his eyes, Alex had learned, were warr than they first appeared.
Across from him sat the club’s sporting director, Federico Salvini. Younger than Saverio, mid-forties maybe, sharp in every sense. Sharp suit, sharp jawline, sharp instincts. His tablet was propped up in front of him, fingers flicking through what looked like transfer docunts or scouting dossiers.
"Alex!" Saverio greeted, rising with a smile and offering his hand. "Co in. Sit. Relax. I heard training was intense today."
Alex shook hands with both n and dropped into the seat between them. "Yeah. We had to make up for the missed day after Milan. The boys were sharp, though. Hungry."
"That’s good," Salvini said without looking up. "They looked it against Milan. I haven’t seen Banda run like that since... well, ever."
Alex smirked. That match felt like it happened a lifeti ago, even though it had only been a few days. He could still hear the San Siro crowd, still see Krstovic’s penalty bulging the net, still feel the sting of champagne foam in his eyes after the final whistle.
"Coffee? Water?" Saverio offered, gesturing to the side counter where a bottle sat beside two neatly stacked glasses.
"Water’s fine," Alex said.
Saverio poured as small talk settled over the room like a blanket. Light, polite, undemanding. They talked about the amusent park outing, how the official club Twitter had posted a photo of Banda in a bumper car with the caption ’G-Force Banda.’ Then about how Lecce’s press coverage had spiked overnight. Clips of the goals against Milan were all over TikTok and Italian football blogs. Banda’s equalizer. Krstovic’s cold-blooded penalty. Even Alex’s post-match line, "Let the boys dream. They earned it.", had gone viral in a quote graphic.
Alex found himself talking more than usual. Sohow, even in the chairman’s office, it didn’t feel like he was being grilled. He wasn’t defending anything. Not justifying results. Not pitching a plan. Just talking. Being heard.
But eventually, the air in the room shifted.
Saverio leaned back in his chair, hands folded neatly on the table, his voice taking a quieter, weightier tone.
"Alex," he began, "I’m not usually one for overpraise. It makes people complacent. Makes them soft. But I’m not blind either. I know what I’m seeing."
Alex straightened up, not in defense, but instinctively. His mind sharpened, bracing for whatever was coming next.
"What you’ve done here..." Saverio continued, his voice steady, "it’s remarkable. When you ca in, we were being called fractured. Broken. So even said beyond repair. The morale, the results, the identity, it was all hanging by a thread."
Alex nodded once. He rembered every word of those articles. Every headline. Every whisper.
"And now?" Saverio went on. "Now we’re one of the most unified teams in the league. The bookmakers had us locked for relegation. So didn’t even list us in pre-season tables. Now? They’re calculating whether we might sneak into Europe if a few results go our way."
Alex felt sothing stir in his chest. Not pride, exactly. Sothing softer. Sothing deeper. A quiet warmth that ca from seeing belief manifest into sothing real.
"We’re in the quarterfinals of the Coppa Italia," Saverio added. "And our position in the league isn’t just safe, it’s stable. Confident. Mid-table, with upward potential."
He let the words settle. Let Alex feel the full weight of them.
"I know it wasn’t easy," he said. "I know what you walked into. I know what you had to overco to get the dressing room back on your side. To rebuild the culture. So... thank you."
Alex didn’t puff his chest or wave it off. He gave a simple nod.
"Thank you for trusting ."
Saverio chuckled. "Well, that’s the thing, Alex. Trust... real trust, it gets tested. And yours is about to be. Because now cos the hard part. Your biggest challenge yet."
He paused for emphasis.
"Your first transfer window."
Alex exhaled through his nose, a small puff of air that said everything. He had been thinking about this for weeks. Before Milan. Before Inter. Before the amusent park and the rollercoaster. Even in his quiet apartnt before dawn, when sleep refused to return, his mind had wandered to scouting reports and budget estimates.
Salvini leaned forward now, placing the tablet face-down on the table. His tone was clinical, but not cold.
"You’re aware of our limitations, I’m sure. I’ll be blunt. We’re not rich. In fact, we’re working with one of the tightest budgets in the league. Our revenue’s steady. We’re stable. But we’re not a spending club. Not yet."
Alex nodded. "That’s what I expected. I’ve already been looking at value-for-money targets. Younger players, mostly. High upside. Low risk. So will need ti, but that’s fine. And I figured we might have to sell, too. If the right offer cos in."
"Exactly," Salvini said. "We will need to sell. Player sales are going to be a part of this process. There’s no way around that."
There was a brief pause. The silence in the room stretched a second longer than was comfortable.
Then Salvini looked toward Saverio, who gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Speaking of which," Salvini said, voice quieter now, "Dorgu’s agents reached out to us this morning."
Alex blinked. That was fast.
"Manchester United have made contact," Salvini continued. "Nothing formal yet. No official bid. But there’s montum. They want to move quickly. This isn’t exploratory. They’re serious. And they’re willing to pay."
Alex leaned back slightly, running a hand through his still-damp hair. He thought of Dorgu imdiately, not just the player, but the person. The way he joked with Banda. The way he sprinted forty yards in training just to win a throw-in. The way he smiled with his whole face.
"He’s a good kid," Alex said, his voice quiet but firm.
"He’s a star in the making," Salvini replied. "And they know it. He’s on every shortlist in Europe. We’ve been lucky to keep him this long."
Saverio still hadn’t said anything. He was watching Alex closely.
"You’ve got a window coming up," he said finally. "You’re going to have to make so big calls. Maybe unpopular ones. Maybe even painful ones. But you’ve earned the right to lead that process. You’ve earned the trust to guide us forward."
Alex didn’t reply imdiately.
He looked down at the table for a mont. Ran his fingers across the edge of the wood. Then looked up again, posture solid.
"I’ll do what’s best for the team," he said. "That’s a promise."
Saverio nodded once. No smile. No extra comntary. Just belief.
"Good. Because you’re not just coaching anymore, Alex. You’re building sothing."
And with those words, the room shifted again.
The conversation continued, of course, there were logistics, nas, projections. But none of it had the sa gravity as what had just been said.
Because this wasn’t about surviving the season anymore.
It wasn’t about stealing points or proving doubters wrong.
This was about sothing bigger. Sothing long-term.
Alex Walker wasn’t just the manager of Lecce now.
He was the architect of its next era.
And Lecce?
They weren’t just surviving anymore.
They were evolving.
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