I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 59: The Paradox

Chapter 59: The Paradox

The hotel corridors were still dark when Alex Walker slipped into his tracksuit, the fabric whispering against his skin as he moved with quiet purpose. He walked slowly at first, not because he was tired, but because the silence gave him something he rarely had these days, peace. The weight of tonight’s quarter-final match at San Siro pressed against his shoulders like an invisible hand, but in this early hour, before the world stirred, there was clarity. He needed it. No chaos, no drama, just the rhythmic sound of his sneakers on carpet and the steady beat of his heart.

He had promised himself something that morning. No more surprises this week. No changes to the plan, no last-minute gambles. He wanted calm. He wanted routine. He wanted control.

But before anything else, he needed to wake his players.

The players’ lounge was dimly lit when he arrived, just seconds before the lights hummed to life overhead. He stood by the door, framed by the faint glow of the hallway behind him, and watched as the team began to appear one by one, yawning, stretching, rubbing sleep from their eyes like schoolboys dragging themselves into class after a sleepless night.

"Good morning," Alex called out, his voice slicing through the drowsy fog that hung over the room. It wasn’t harsh, but it held an edge of authority, the kind that made your spine straighten even when your brain hadn’t fully caught up. "Stretch time. Let’s loosen up."

Banda was the first to react. He dropped dramatically to the carpeted floor with a loud groan, arms flailing like a man wounded. "Coach, it’s too early. I’ve seen mornings that started better with my face in a pillow and a headache from the night before."

From the corner, Gallo pulled down his headphones and smirked, amusement twinkling in his still-sleepy eyes. "Yeah, and even then, Banda probably still scored a brace."

Laughter rippled across the lounge, the kind of easy, genuine sound that came from shared exhaustion and trust. Krstović rolled his neck, then dropped to the ground beside Banda, mimicking his exaggerated stretch. "You lot talk too much," he grumbled playfully. "Just move."

Alex watched it unfold, stopwatch in hand. "Two minutes," he reminded them. "Dynamic stretches only. Light voices, light movement. Focus."

He didn’t tell them that he himself had woken before the sun, heart racing from a dream he couldn’t remember, a knot sitting square in his stomach. He didn’t share how many times he had stared at the ceiling, replaying match scenarios, mentally rotating his squad through passing patterns. He didn’t say a word. He just watched. Let them be young. Let them laugh. Let them feel the moment without knowing its weight.

And then there was Luca Ferretti.

Sixteen years old, quiet, graceful, already halfway through his stretches by the time the others were warming up. He moved with a focus that defied his age, every motion precise. Alex gave him a nod. No words. Just a shared understanding. The boy was ready. Whether tonight was his moment or not, the fire was there. That was enough.

Once stretching ended, they moved on to breakfast. The dining area glowed with soft yellow light, and trays of food lined the buffet. Eggs, toast, fruit, oatmeal. The scent of coffee mixed with the low hum of early conversation. It wasn’t a feast, but it was fuel, and that was all they needed.

Alex sat among them. Not at the head, not off to the side, but right there in the middle of it all. The table felt like a microcosm of everything Lecce had become, veterans and kids, jokers and thinkers, bruisers and dreamers.

Banda complained almost immediately. "Whoever cooked these eggs needs to be investigated," he said, poking at them with his fork. "Crisis in a pan, I swear."

Krstović raised an eyebrow, then without warning, dumped a ridiculous amount of salt onto his own plate and dramatically took a bite. "Now it’s a disaster movie," he said between exaggerated chews.

Laughter followed, and across the table, Gallo was busy stealing slices of melon from Luca’s plate. The kid noticed, of course he did, but he just smiled faintly and kept eating, too polite or too focused to make a scene.

Even Pongračić, their seasoned captain, found himself laughing when Berisha managed to spill an entire spoonful of oats onto his training top. "You’ve got more on your shirt than in your mouth," the defender joked, shaking his head.

Alex sat back, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. This was what belief looked like. Not just confidence, but a shared sense of something bigger. They were becoming more than a team. They were a unit. They were ready.

After breakfast came the routine. Video review. Tactical reminders. Positioning refreshers. Alex walked them through clips of Milan’s last five matches, breaking down pressing patterns, transitional weaknesses, and defensive blind spots. No lecture. Just guidance. Just small nudges. They knew the plan. This was about reminders, not reinvention.

Then the waiting began.

For hours, time dragged. Alex paced the hallway like a caged animal. He ran over his notes. Checked his phone. Reread messages he’d already replied to. Checked his lineups for the fifth time. He stopped by the physio room, the staff room, the equipment room. Each visit lasted seconds. He didn’t need anything. He just couldn’t sit still.

His hands ached to grip a clipboard. His voice itched to shout from the sidelines. But it wasn’t time yet.

And then suddenly, it was.

They were minutes from kickoff.

The players gathered in the locker room, jerseys draped across benches, boots lined in neat rows. The scent of liniment mixed with fresh AstroTurf, the sharpness of readiness in the air.

Alex called them in. They formed a circle, eyes on him, ears open.

"We know this drill," he said, voice steady. "Pressure comes. We absorb. Counter clean. Play our game."

He let that hang. Let them feel it. The moment. The expectation. The dream.

"Tonight," he continued, "we want more than a result. We want a statement. You are winners. The question isn’t if, but how big the win will be."

There was a pause, then energy burst. Shouts, chest bumps, fire. They were ready.

He met each gaze.

Banda grinned wide, eyes bright.

Gallo cracked his knuckles.

Krstović nodded once, slow and sure.

And Luca, Luca stood still, fists clenched, nerves and purpose dancing in his fingertips.

Together, they stepped out of the locker room.

Alex walked out first, leading the team into the tunnel. He breathed in the cold stadium air and felt it rush through his lungs. Just him and the memory of days gone by, when he used to march this path as a player. Now, it was different. Now he was the one pulling the strings.

The roar of the San Siro hit them like a wave. It was deafening, relentless. AC Milan fans filled the air with chants, banners, fury. It was beautiful, and it was brutal.

Alex felt no fear. He smiled.

Days ago, he was here as the hero.

Now, he was the villain.

Some people had already forgotten him. Others remembered every touch, every tackle, every goal. But that wasn’t the point.

He wasn’t here for nostalgia. He wasn’t here for applause or scorn.

He was here to win.

A coach now. A leader. A tactician.

He had a mission. And it waited at the center circle.

One step. Then another. Then a third.

The lights glared. The stadium thundered.

San Siro breathed and bled football.

"It’s time," Alex whispered to himself.

And then, the whistle blew.

A/N: 1/2 bonus Chapters from the gift quota. Sorry it’s coming very late