I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 54: Let Me In

Chapter 54: Let Me In

About an hour after the press conference finished, Alex found himself standing in front of the door to his apartment. His hands entered his pockets and lingered for a few seconds, only reemerging when he had his key in his hands. He placed the key into the keyhole and stepped into his hime.

In the quiet of his own home, Alex’s chest tightened as he stepped inside. The front door shut with a dull thud behind him, and the silence that followed was thick, almost alive. He stood in the hallway for a long moment, staring blankly ahead. The air felt still, too still, and the shadows cast by the dim ceiling light seemed to press against him.

With a sudden grunt, he kicked his shoes off violently. One slammed into the wall, the other skidded across the floor until it struck a corner and tipped over. He didn’t care. Every wall, every framed photo of his career, of the past he had buried and the new one he was trying to build, seemed to stare at him. Judging him. Accusing him.

The trophies. The autographs. The shirts in glass cases. They were all there, polished and pristine, like ghosts of a life he once lived.

He stormed through the lounge, his arms swinging without purpose, driven by a rising fury that had no clear direction. A small table went over with a crash, a glass tumbler exploding into glittering shards across the tiles. He didn’t even flinch. A lamp fell next, caught by a careless elbow, and shattered with a dull pop. Sparks from the bulb flickered and died out.

A framed photo of a young Alex Walker wearing a Manchester United jersey teetered on a shelf and fell. It hit the ground with a sharp crack, glass breaking, but the picture beneath it remained intact. Alex’s young face, full of hope and unshakable belief, stared back up at him. A snapshot of purer days. Alex’s jaw clenched. His hand reached down, grabbed the frame, and hurled it against the wall.

The frame split, but the photo stayed unbroken.

Alex backed away, his chest rising and falling, heart pounding. He kicked at the rug, snarling as it twisted under his foot and bunched up. A yell tore from his throat, raw and loud, before he slammed his fist against the wall hard enough to leave a crack in the paint.

"Why didn’t you hold on?" he shouted. "We had them! We had them!" His voice bounced off the empty space, anger blending into something more painful.

He staggered into the kitchen, threw open the cupboard, and started pulling out glass bottles one by one. Wine. Whiskey. Olive oil. Anything with weight. He hurled them at the floor, each shatter like punctuation to a sentence he couldn’t finish.

"I needed that win! The team needed it! I needed it!" His voice cracked, trembling with vulnerability. "It wasn’t just a game! It was our moment! My moment! My moment! My fucking moment!"

He sank to the floor, legs folding under him as his shoulders trembled. He wrapped his arms around his knees, eyes fixed on the cracked photo of Luca across the room.

"It was proof," he whispered. "That we weren’t just underdogs. That Lecce could fight. That I could fight. That I wasn’t some washed-up dream chasing shadows." His voice thinned, soft and bitter. "But you know what it really means?"

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He tried to blink them away, but they slipped down regardless. He wiped at them with the back of his hand roughly.

"I failed." He said it like a curse. "I failed when it counted. Even with the system, I still can’t do a fucking thing right"

The ache in his chest wouldn’t go away. He hadn’t just been coaching a squad. He’d poured everything into this. His ideas, his obsession, his time, his heart. The 4–4 draw felt like a mockery. So close to a statement victory, only to lose it in stoppage time, with the whole world watching.

He pulled himself up slowly, using the wall for support. His knees shook beneath him, not from fear, but from exhaustion. From everything. He looked around at the wreckage of his home. Bottles, glass, overturned furniture.

It didn’t feel like a home anymore.

He collapsed onto the couch, rubbing both hands down his face. His fingers brushed against his bruised knuckles, and for the first time, he noticed the blood. The skin was torn. Just like the rest of him.

Then came a buzz. His phone vibrated once, gently, almost apologetically.

He looked over. The screen glowed in the dimness. Isabella. 23:42.

He stared at the name for a while. He hadn’t meant to call anyone tonight. He wasn’t in the mood for people. But maybe... maybe this night was the one night he couldn’t afford to be alone.

They met at "Il Bar Del Porto", a quiet bar near the harbor, tucked away from the noise of the world. The low lights gave everything a soft amber glow, and outside the windows, the dark sea sloshed against the dock.

She was already there when he arrived, seated at the small corner table they had once jokingly claimed as theirs. A martini glass rested near her hand. She looked up, and her face softened when she saw him.

"Hey," she said gently, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are you alright?"

He dropped into the chair across from her. "Yeah. Fine."

But she didn’t believe it. Her eyes dropped to his hands, then widened as she spotted the scrape. "You said you’re fine, but... what happened?"

He shrugged, looking away. "It’s nothing."

She didn’t take that. Not tonight.

"Don’t lie to me, Alex," she said, her voice rising just enough to cut through the music. "Again." There was pain there, not just concern. "I’m not your therapist, but if I’m acting like one, don’t treat me like some stranger who’s just here when you need to feel less alone. I’m not some barfly you grab a drink when you feel lonely."

He opened his mouth to protest, but her words had already hit.

"It’s not like that," he said quietly.

She leaned in, her eyes locked to his. "Then stop making it feel like it is. Let me in. Stop shutting me out. Just for once." She paused, letting her words hang in the air. "Let me care."

He didn’t know what to say at first. The tension in his shoulders was thick, but slowly, bit by bit, it loosened. He stared into the dark swirl of his drink, then slowly exhaled.

"I needed tonight," he admitted. "More than anything. That win-" His throat tightened. "It would’ve changed everything. It would’ve proved that Lecce isn’t a joke. That we don’t roll over. That I’m not just another wildcard coach with a weird system."

He looked up. "But we didn’t win."

Isabella didn’t interrupt.

"We almost did. We were better. Even after Inter threw everything at us. Even after the board said we were crazy for the way we play. I saw it tonight. We belonged out there." He paused. "But then Bastoni struck that shot... from nowhere. Top corner. And suddenly, it’s not proof anymore. It’s just another almost."

Isabella reached across the table and took his hand gently.

"You can’t control everything," she said. "And you can’t hold on to what slipped by. That goal wasn’t your fault."

His hand tensed in hers.

"I know," he muttered. "But it doesn’t feel like that. Everyone was watching. Fans, the press, the league. We had the perfect story. We had the match. It was ours." He ran a hand through his hair. "Now it’s just another draw. Another mistake people will hang around my neck."

Her grip on his hand tightened.

"I know it hurts. But you’re not the mistake. Your work matters. Your ideas matter. What you’re building... it matters."

He met her eyes, and for a second, his guard faltered completely.

"I’m scared," he confessed. "That it was all for nothing. That they’ll go back to thinking Lecce is just cannon fodder. That I’m just a phase. A guy with nothing but tactics and guts and no future."

She shook her head. "That’s not what tonight showed. You made them believe. The players. The fans. Me. You made us all believe again."

He didn’t respond at first. The words were thick in his throat. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I just didn’t want to be alone tonight."

She reached out, brushing her thumb softly against the wound on his hand. "You’re not alone," she whispered back.

He looked at her. Really looked. The pain was still there, but so was something else. A warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time.

A bartender came by and quietly cleared the table.

"You’re okay?"

Alex nodded faintly. "Yeah," he said, voice low. "Yeah, I am now."

They walked together through Lecce’s quiet streets. The lamps glowed gently, bathing the road in a golden haze. Neither of them said much. They didn’t need to. The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It was safe.

At his apartment door, he turned to her.

"Thank you," he said again, his voice sincere. "Really."

She smiled. "Anytime."

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and took in the wreckage of his apartment. Still broken. Still messy. But somehow, it didn’t feel so unbearable anymore.

He flicked on the lights, looked around, and let out a long breath.

"It’s going to be okay," he said quietly to himself. "It has to be."

A/N: Decided to lock in and write the fourth Chapter today. Author now has a full blown headache but it’s for the greater good.

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