I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 53: I Prefer Not To Speak

Chapter 53: I Prefer Not To Speak

The locker room felt like the inside of a sealed vault, thick with silence and heavy breaths. No music, no idle chatter, no slaps of cleats on tile. Just stillness. It wasn’t the quiet of peace, it was the quiet of a battlefield after the cannons stopped firing. The air clung to their lungs, damp and tinged with sweat, tension, and the faint scent of liniment.

Everything was a mess. Wet kits lay in crumpled heaps across the benches and floor. Empty plastic bottles rolled underfoot. Towels were tossed haphazardly, some stained with blood, others soaked in sweat. But there was something intimate in the chaos, something real. These were not just players. These were soldiers, and this, this was the aftermath.

For a moment, no one dared speak. Even the flickering fluorescent lights above seemed to understand the weight in the room. They hummed softly but not loudly, casting shadows that moved as slowly as the breath of the players themselves.

Then, finally, Alex Walker stepped forward. His boots echoed as they touched the tile floor, every step sounding deliberate, carved out of the weight of what had just transpired.

"I am proud of every single one of you," he said, voice low but firm, the kind of tone that cut through air like a blade slicing silk. His shoulders were squared, and though his face was grave, his eyes shimmered with something close to tears. "Proud of your grit. Your resilience. You gave everything on that pitch tonight."

He paced slowly in front of them, eyes roaming from player to player, stopping at each one for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

"You earned that lead. You held it. And yes, we were robbed," he said, pausing as his voice nearly caught. "But what matters more is what you showed the world out there. What you showed me. You showed what it means to fight. What it means to believe. What it means to bleed together for something bigger than yourselves."

The room remained still, but the tension had shifted, now it brimmed with unspoken pride and frustration, churning just beneath the skin.

"The system was rigged so that Inter walk away with something tonight. They walk away with a point. But it’s just a number. A number on a screen. That scoreboard might say 4–4, but I promise you, tonight you are winners. Each and every one of you."

His voice trembled again. Not from weakness. From rage and pride blending together, raw and unfiltered.

"I want you to know it," Alex said, slower now, like he was burning each word into their bones. "I want you to carry it with you. Because if we play like this again, with this heart, this fire, no one will stop us."

The silence finally broke, not with words, but with thunder.

Someone, probably Pongračić, pounded his fist into a locker. Then another shout joined in. Then another. Boots kicked against the floor. A war cry brewed from their throats, ragged and echoing. Riccardo Kaba slammed the bench beside him hard enough to shake it. Marin Pongračić leaned forward and roared, face buried in his hands. Medon Berisha stood up, turned to the wall, and punched it with the side of his fist. A tremble ran through his shoulders, and though his knuckles reddened, his eyes brimmed with tears he refused to let fall.

It spread like wildfire. Every player joined the release, letting everything out. Anger, frustration, pride, it all came up at once, like a dam bursting after too much pressure.

Off in the corner, Luca Ferretti sat quietly. He said nothing. He didn’t join in the shouts or the chaos. Instead, he pulled off his jersey, heavy, soaked with sweat and caked with dirt, and looked at it for a long moment. It was a small thing, but the way he folded it with care and placed it down said everything. He’d just played more minutes than he ever had in his life. His legs were spent, his body bruised, but he sat tall. His expression was calm, proud, but there was something hollow in his eyes. The kind of look someone had after tasting glory, only to have it ripped away at the final breath.

Alex noticed. Of course he did.

He stared at the teenager, a storm of feelings in his gaze, admiration, frustration, regret. Luca had changed the game. Controlled it. Orchestrated Lecce’s attacks like a conductor leading a crescendo. He had made San Siro hold its breath, had forced even the hardest hearts in blue and black to pause and watch. That kind of magic didn’t fade with a final whistle.

The door creaked open, and the noise in the room dipped for a heartbeat.

Isabella stepped in. Tall, always composed, dressed in her usual club blazer and slacks. Her expression was professional, but Alex could see the same storm behind her eyes that lived in all of them. She had a folder in one arm, a phone in the other. Always moving, always ready.

"Alex," she said gently, walking into the room like she didn’t want to break anything. "You’re needed in the press room."

He gave a slight nod, slow and reluctant.

"You know they’re going to ask about it," she added. "About the added time. About the decisions."

Alex let out a breath, clenched his jaw. His mind swam again, Bastoni’s goal, the way the net rippled, Falcone’s outstretched arms frozen in the air. Luca’s tired legs scrambling to close down space that wasn’t his to own. It all came back in sharp, painful flashes.

"What’s done is done," he said, voice low but resolute. "Now we answer the questions."

Isabella gave him a small nod. Respectful. Supportive. Together, they left the locker room.

The walk to the press room felt long. Every step echoed in the concrete corridor, but neither of them said anything. They didn’t need to. The truth hung between them, heavy and silent. It was one of those moments where words just got in the way.

As they neared the door, a large screen showed the match clock. "First question at 20:05." It blinked quietly, as if reminding them that the battle wasn’t quite over yet. Just... different now.

Alex adjusted the collar of his black sweater. He always wore the same one on matchday. Superstition maybe. Or just comfort. He stepped into the room, and the atmosphere shifted instantly.

The lights were brighter here, hot and sterile. Flashbulbs popped. Recorders beeped. Reporters leaned forward like lions eyeing prey. Every chair was filled. Every gaze sharpened.

Marco Caruso, from Corriere dello Sport, stood up first. His voice was even, but his eyes were hungry. "Alex, tough night. What are your thoughts on the match?"

Alex looked at him. For a second, he almost smiled. Just the ghost of one.

"I prefer not to speak," he said, calm and measured. "If I speak, I will be in trouble."

A few eyebrows lifted. A few knowing glances passed across the room. The Mourinho reference didn’t go unnoticed.

Marco pressed on, tone slightly softer. "Trouble in what way? You mean with the officials?"

Alex turned slightly, just enough to catch Isabella in his peripheral vision. She gave a slight nod, barely there.

He turned back to the microphones. "Trouble because the truth is rarely welcomed. And because my players don’t deserve punishment for a performance that came straight from the heart."

There was a brief silence. Then Giulia Moretti stood, always quick with the hard questions.

"But Alex, does that mean you accept what happened? The officiating? The extra time? Bastoni’s final strike? Is Lecce going to push back?"

Alex leaned forward, resting both hands on the table. His voice dropped, steady and low.

"Football is imperfect. We know that. I know that. My team knows that. But tonight, they showed character. I will not let that get overshadowed by minutes or whistles." He sighed. "If you write anything tonight, write that I am proud of them. Let that be the headline."

Another reporter, Alessandro Ferretti, stood now. The name rang familiar. Maybe related to Luca, maybe not.

"Do you believe the system favors Inter?"

Alex didn’t flinch. "Not intentionally. But naturally, yes. They are Inter Milan. They are the machine. Tonight, the machine had one more minute than it should have. That’s all."

More silence. Then a quieter voice, Raphael Farias. He leaned forward slightly. "Alex, is this still a turning point for Lecce? Luca Ferretti, in particular, he looked like he belonged out there."

A real smile appeared on Alex’s face. Not forced. Not bitter.

"Luca earned every second he played. He didn’t look like a youth player tonight. He looked like our heartbeat. He gave us control, vision, belief." His eyes scanned the room again. "He is why we led. Why we stood toe to toe with giants. He’s not a maybe anymore. He’s real."

There was soft applause. A few claps. Isabella looked pleased.

"One last question," she said.

But Alex stood. "No more. I’ve said enough."

He left the podium behind, brushing past the door. Isabella followed close behind. Once outside, away from the lights and cameras, she exhaled.

"He was something else tonight," she said.

Alex nodded, slowly, quietly. "That boy," he murmured. "He’ll change everything."

They walked through the corridor back toward the locker room. Back in the changing area, the players had regrouped. They weren’t sulking. They weren’t broken. If anything, they were stronger, more alive. They were draping arms around Luca, cheering his name, tapping his head, patting his back.

Because tonight, even if the scoreboard said otherwise, they had not lost.

Tonight was something more.

Tonight was a revelation.

A/N: ahem, from now on spamming of gifts won’t work.

Search the lightnovelworld.cc website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.