I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 48: Vs Inter Milan (4)

Chapter 48: Vs Inter Milan (4)

The hallway lights flickered slightly as the Lecce squad trudged back into the locker room. Their boots echoed against the hard tiles, heavy and dragging, like the weight of the first half had settled not only in their legs but deep into their bones. No one said anything. They didn’t need to. The silence between them said it all.

It wasn’t the silence of a team that had been dominated or embarrassed. It was the silence of frustration, of a story rewritten in real time. They had gone two goals up at the San Siro. Against Inter Milan. And somehow, they had let it slip.

That was the worst part. Not that they had conceded. But that they had been so close to something special. And then let it vanish.

The locker room felt colder than it should have, the kind of cold that had little to do with temperature and everything to do with mood. Jerseys clung to tired backs, soaked with sweat and effort. A few players kicked at the tape on their ankles. Others simply sat down, eyes fixed on nothing, breathing in the sour air of disappointment.

Ramadani slumped down onto the bench, dragging a towel over his head like he wanted to shut the world out for a minute. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Dorgu, meanwhile, just shook his head over and over like he could rewind time by sheer force of will. His miss in the 38th minute still clung to him like a curse.

Berisha paced near the whiteboard, mumbling to himself under his breath like he was retracing every play. The way his hands waved occasionally suggested he was seeing it all again, the passes, the runs, the opening, the mistake.

Even Gallo, the one who usually cracked jokes no matter the situation, sat quietly, elbows on knees, staring down at his boots like they had betrayed him.

Everyone was waiting.

Not for the halftime whistle. That had already come.

They were waiting for his voice.

The yelling. The frustration. The breakdown of every error in painful detail. They were ready for it. Bracing for it. Expecting it.

But Alex Walker didn’t yell.

He didn’t storm in or throw a water bottle or rip the tactics board off the wall.

He walked in slowly. Calmly. His coat was off now, tossed over a chair. His sleeves were rolled to the forearm. His eyes moved from player to player, not scanning, not searching, but seeing them. All of them. Fully. Personally.

He didn’t speak right away. And that silence, surprisingly, didn’t add pressure. It lifted it.

When he did speak, his voice was soft. Clear.

"I’m proud."

The sentence slipped into the room like a leaf on water. Heads turned. Some lifted. Others furrowed their brows. No one expected that.

"I’m proud of what you showed out there."

Ramadani peeked out from under the towel. Dorgu looked over slowly. Berisha stopped pacing. Even Gallo raised an eyebrow.

"I know," Alex continued, "we had a two-goal lead. And I know we let it slip. And trust me, no one is more pissed off about that than I am."

His voice sharpened at the edges for a moment, the steel underneath his calm shining through.

"But that’s football. It hits you sometimes. Sometimes the other team gets it right. And sometimes, we mess up. Sometimes we punch ourselves in the face by missing sitters or misjudging passes."

That last part earned a few weak chuckles. Not out of disrespect, but because it was true. And the truth sometimes had a funny way of sounding ridiculous.

"But I’m not going to stand here and waste your time, or mine, screaming about forty-five minutes that are already gone. You know what happened. I know what happened. But what matters more is what will happen."

Alex took a slow step forward. His hands were at his sides now, relaxed.

"You know how losers think? They obsess over what went wrong. They go out there scared. They play to avoid mistakes. That’s not how we do things. That’s not Lecce."

He paused, and his gaze swept the room like a commander taking stock of his army.

"I want you to focus on the forty-five minutes that are still ahead of us. I want you to walk back out there and show Inter Milan, and every single person watching, that this isn’t luck. That we didn’t fluke our way into this stadium. That we belong here."

The room was still quiet, but the energy was changing. The air wasn’t heavy anymore. It was stirring. There was a hum under the silence, like the moment before thunder.

"You are not a storybook underdog anymore," Alex said. "You are players who’ve gone toe to toe with the best in the league, and for thirty minutes, you outplayed them."

He pointed at Dorgu.

"You missed. So what? You got there in the first place. You made the run. You made the chance. You’ll make another one."

Dorgu’s mouth twitched, almost like he wanted to smile but didn’t trust himself to just yet.

He looked at Ramadani.

"You’ve covered more grass in that midfield than half of Inter’s squad combined. That doesn’t go unnoticed."

Then Gallo.

"You shut down Dimarco for half an hour. Don’t let one bad moment make you forget that."

Gallo nodded, lips pressed tight. The usual jokes were gone, but something else replaced them. Determination.

Alex took a breath and continued.

"I don’t want you to go out there playing scared. I want you to go out swinging. Head up. Eyes open. Hearts full."

He paused one last time, standing still in the center of the locker room.

"You’ve held your own against giants. Now knock them over."

A beat passed.

Then someone clapped. It was light at first. A single, cautious clap. Then another joined it. And another. It spread like wildfire until the whole room was clapping together, the sound building, not just in noise but in belief.

And just like that, the fog was gone. Players started standing up straighter. Ramadani threw the towel aside. Dorgu slapped his thighs and let out a sharp breath. Gallo cracked his neck like he was about to run through a wall.

Gloves were pulled on tighter. Tape was reapplied. Someone smacked Pongračić on the back and told him to keep using his forehead like a shield. That earned a real laugh, and the tension melted even further.

Just then, the assistant coach poked his head in through the door.

"Coach, second half’s starting soon."

Alex turned. "Got it."

He looked at his team again, pride written in the lines of his face.

"Let’s move."

One by one, they filed out. Boots clacking against the tile like a war drum. Gallo muttered something about dragging a bus in front of the goal if it meant keeping a clean sheet this half. Krstovic shot back that if Gallo was dragging buses, he should at least drag one forward and be useful.

Laughter. Energy. Light again.

But before they had all disappeared, Alex reached out and stopped one of them. The youngest.

"Luca," he said.

Ferretti turned, his face instantly alert.

Alex lowered his voice so the others wouldn’t hear.

"I need you to get ready. Mentally."

Luca blinked. "For what?"

"I’m going to use you in the second half," Alex said. "Not immediately. But when the moment’s right, I’ll call on you."

Luca swallowed once. "Okay."

"You’re our secret weapon," Alex said. "They won’t see you coming."

The boy gave a quick, serious nod. Then he jogged off, catching up with the others as they disappeared into the tunnel.

And just for a moment, Alex stayed there. Alone in the locker room.

He closed his eyes.

Inhaled.

Then exhaled.

"Now let’s go make them regret waking us up."

A/N: Saw that we reached 50 Power Stones this week, so I guess that means two more Chapters today then.

*cough cough* now that this book has become contracted we’re going to need to change the system a little bit (so I don’t get migraines from writing too many Chapters).

From now on:

5 golden tickets = 1 extra Chapter

75 Power Stones = 1 extra Chapter

5 gifts of any kind = 1 extra Chapter

1 super gift (magic castle ahh gift) = 5 extra Chapters and my eternal gratitude

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