I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 56: The Greater Good

Chapter 56: The Greater Good

Alex reached his front door just as the evening chill wrapped itself around Lecce like a thin blanket. The cold air kissed his skin, making him shiver lightly. With a tired sigh, he fished his keys out of his pocket and slipped them into the bowl by the entrance. The soft clang echoed across the apartment, followed by the familiar creak of the old floorboards beneath his feet.

He walked straight to his bedroom, his steps heavy, shoulders low. The weight of the past week had finally caught up to him. It wasn’t just physical fatigue, although that was part of it. It was everything. The tactical experiments, the ongoing recovery sessions, the mental preparation for the upcoming showdown against AC Milan. His brain had been in overdrive for days, constantly juggling the needs of the team, the pressure from the board, and the countless whispers from fans and pundits alike.

He kicked off his shoes at the side of the bed, not caring where they landed, and peeled off his coat. It dropped limply onto the floor as he collapsed onto the mattress. The springs groaned under his weight. He didn’t care. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, eyes already starting to close, hoping for a moment of stillness.

But rest wasn’t so quick to come.

His mind buzzed with flashes from the day. He remembered the sound of his players laughing during warm-ups, the determination in Luca’s eyes as they walked through the shape drills, and the sunlight casting a glow on Lecce’s tiled rooftops, clinging to the last hints of a fading Christmas charm.

Then, just as his body began to relax, a soft ping echoed through the room.

[Ding! Tactical Recommendations Available.]

Alex opened his eyes instantly. That sound was unmistakable. It was the system, once again intruding like an old friend who never quite picked the right moment to visit.

He groaned, but he opened his eyes anyway and the familiar digital glow welcomed him.

[Hybrid Tactical Recommendations: 4–4–2 / 4–2–3–1 Counter.]

His eyes scanned the bullet points quickly, interest growing with every line.

["Pivot mid: disciplined distributor with press resistance."]

["No. 10 role: link-up for strikers and midfield transition."]

["Temporary fit: Helgasson in number 10 spot. January transfer target: athletic, intelligent second striker."]

["Wide midfielders: disciplined for phase transitions into back four defensively and wingback off ball."]

["Striker: physical runner plus intelligent finisher."]

["Press triggers: VVD-inspired pressure drops."]

["Defensive alignment: narrow block when necessary, quick launch on lines 6 to 8 meters."]

Alex leaned forward, heart picking up pace. This wasn’t just a loose suggestion like it had been in the early days. No, this was sharp. Calculated. Tactical to the bone. It even outpaced what he had visualized on the whiteboard earlier in the week.

He raised his eyes at the temporary solution where Helgasson could play as a ten. He was a natural attacking midfielder but Alex thought he was too tall and athletic to take that type of a position. He’d test him out during training and see what he could do. If that didn’t work then he’d play Luca in a more advanced position.

He scrolled further. Charts and graphs flashed up next. Match-up data. Pressing zones. Lines of weakness in opposition structure. Opposition tendencies, pass maps. Space heatmaps. He bit his lip as he took it all in.

And then reality caught up.

His finger slowed, and he scrolled down to the financial overview.

[Current Transfer Budget: €1.2 million.]

He let out a heavy sigh.

January was close. Too close. Loan fees, travel costs, wages. It had all eaten away at what little they had managed to squirrel away. The ambitions in his head didn’t match the money in the club’s account.

Then he remembered the headlines he’d tried to ignore.

Manchester United. Patrick Dorgu. A big club was circling, ready to swoop in. The papers were screaming it already. The wingback was a star in the making, and United didn’t play around when it came to talent. They would pay. They always did.

Alex stared at the screen.

He had known this moment was coming. A part of him had always been braced for it. Dorgu was exceptional. A rare mix of pace, discipline, and raw instinct. But more than that, the boy had become like family in just a few weeks. His smile, his questions, the way he soaked up every drill like it was gospel. Letting him go would sting.

But Lecce needed the money. Badly. It wasn’t just about selling a player. It was about building something sustainable. It was about funding the new system. Getting that second striker. Shoring up midfield. Investing in infrastructure, maybe even giving Luca and a few others the development platform they deserved.

Alex groaned and got a laptop from the table beside his bed. Alex’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then he started typing.

To: Isabella

Subject: Dorgu – Here is £ factor and negotiations timing.

He hit send.

Then, he added a note to his tactics document.

"Draft 4–2–3–1 submission to board. Include temporary shift of Helgason to #10. JV funding required Jan window."

He saved the file, set the tablet aside, and slowly let his body fall back into the mattress. The ceiling stared back at him. He let the silence hang for a moment before whispering to no one but himself.

"We’ll be okay."

The screen dimmed, fading into darkness. Eventually, his eyes shut and sleep took him. But his dreams were busy. The future loomed large. AC Milan. January. Departures. New beginnings.

Morning came with a pale sun, struggling to push through the clouds. A soft light seeped through the blinds, painting lazy lines across the room. Alex opened his eyes to a quiet apartment. No alarms. Just the steady tick of the wall clock.

He sat up slowly. His body ached faintly, a leftover reminder from the punch he’d thrown at the lamp two days ago during a moment of frustration. The bruising was almost gone, but the soreness lingered.

He rubbed his eyes and stood, moving for the shower. Warm water helped chase the fog from his head. He dressed with care. Polo shirt, dark slacks, padded vest. His usual coaching outfit. Comfortable, professional, and warm enough for the morning chill.

Before leaving, he scribbled a few bullet points into the small leather notebook he always kept in his jacket.

– Walk through system with Luca privately.

– Training: 4–2–3–1 vs 3–5–2 midfield progression.

– Monitor Helgasson’s performance in #10.

– Re-evaluate Dorgu. Discuss with Sports Director later.

He nodded to himself, closed the notebook, and stepped outside. The cold hit his cheeks, but it was the good kind of cold. Bracing. It made him feel awake, alive.

The walk to Centro di Torre Rinalda was quiet. Just the crunch of his shoes on the sidewalk and the rustle of early winter breeze through bare trees.

When he arrived, the pitch was already kissed by sunlight, the dewy grass sparkling like it had been dusted with glitter. It was beautiful. He paused to take it in.

He entered the building, made a beeline for the coaches’ office, and poured himself a coffee. The room smelled like paper and fresh grounds. The monitors were already humming, system data auto-loaded. He reviewed the shapes one more time.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Isabella step into the doorway. Her face was calm, kind as always.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

He gave her a small smile. Tired, but genuine.

"I’m good. Ready."

She held his gaze for a moment, then said softly, "Remember, they look to you for belief."

He nodded. "I know. That’s what I want to give them."

She gave a small smile and left him to prepare.

Not long after, the players began to file in. Breath turned to mist in the cold air. Jackets wrapped tight. Gloves pulled on. But energy hung in the air. They were curious.

Luca nodded at him. Kaba stretched near the touchline. Gallo bounced on his toes. Berisha and Ramadani chatted quietly. Rebić jogged over with a grin.

Alex clapped his hands. "Morning, everyone."

The chatter faded. Eyes turned to him. He stood in front of the whiteboard, a marker in hand.

"I want to walk you through what we’re doing this week. What we’re training today."

He sketched the formation as he spoke.

"4–2–3–1. Back four as usual. But we’re adding two pivots in midfield. A number 10 in front. Helgasson, you’ll be holding that spot temporarily. In January, we’re hoping to bring in someone specialized for that role."

Helgasson raised an eyebrow. "I’m playing?!" He then turned to everyone and shouted with more certainty. "Everyone, I’m playing!"

A bout of laughter with mock applause ensued from all the other players who found his "outburst" entertaining.

Alex nodded. "Yeah, you’re linking play. Moving intelligently off the striker. You’re the connector."

He turned to Luca. "We want you aggressive. Press, cover, support. Don’t get caught in no man’s land."

Then to Dorgu, voice more gentle. "You’ll still play fullback. But we’re shifting. Wide midfielders are going to drop to cover the back four when needed. Your overlaps have to be smart. Timed."

A few murmurs went around the group. Curiosity. Interest. Nobody looked confused.

"Rebić, Krstović, we need you running the channels. Playing off each other. You’re both forwards, but you’ve got to complement, not copy. And Rebic, you’ll be playing off the left."

Rebić gave a thumbs-up. Krstović smiled.

Alex wrapped it up.

"Today we drill it. Tomorrow, we try it in full flow. AC Milan presses hard, but if we manage the pivot zones, we can control the match. Let’s see what we’ve got. Are we ready?"

"Yes, Coach!" they shouted together.

He smiled wide. "Let’s roll."

The session kicked off with shape drills. 4–2–3–1 against a 3–5–2. Players adjusted quickly. Helgasson explored pockets behind midfield. Luca worked like a metronome. Wingers dropped and surged, reacting to press triggers.

They practiced counters, quick breaks, long diagonals into space behind Milan’s left-back zone. It was organized chaos. The kind Alex lived for.

By the end, the players were breathing hard, sweat steaming in the winter air.

He brought them together.

"This feels different, right?"

They nodded, faces flushed but proud.

"We still have our low block, but now we have more. Identity. Ambition. We test it against Milan, and we go from there."

The players dispersed with lighter steps. Some joked. Others chatted about the changes. But all of them looked intrigued.

Alex packed up his notes. Isabella returned with a printed document. Tactical summary for the board.

He signed it without hesitation. "January price will require funds from selling Dorgu."

She paused, then gave a small nod.

As they walked out together, he whispered quietly to himself.

"We’ll be ready."

That night, at home, he sat by the window. Outside, holiday lights blinked gently in the distance. Lecce felt peaceful. Quiet.

He sipped tea, tablet untouched beside him.

The tactics still circled his mind. The shape. The purpose.

He tapped a note into his screen before heading to bed.

Believe. Build. Become.

He stood, took one last glance at the night sky, and disappeared down the hallway.

Tomorrow was another day. Another chance. Another step forward.

A/N: Unrelated question, but who’s actually watching this Club World Cup thing?

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