I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 62: Vs AC Milan (3)

Chapter 62: Vs AC Milan (3)

As the referee’s whistle echoed across the San Siro, sharp and final, the two teams slowed, then stopped, then began the slow walk toward the tunnel. The end of the first half had come, and with it, a release of tension that had been building like steam in a sealed chamber. Lecce’s players moved in silence, shoulders sagging slightly, boots scuffing against the grass as they made their way off the pitch. The scoreboard above glowed in harsh red and white: 1–0. Just a single goal separated the sides, but it felt like a cliff already climbed, like a war had already been fought and survived, barely.

Around them, the San Siro pulsed with noise, but the players heard almost none of it. The crowd’s roaring blended into a low hum, like distant thunder. In the tunnel, Lecce’s squad trudged forward, heads bowed, breathing heavy. Sweat clung to their jerseys. Some leaned against the concrete walls, others pulled their shirts over their mouths to breathe in cooler air. No one spoke much. The weight of the occasion was pressing down on their shoulders like lead. Even Banda, who had nearly scored in the first half, stared at the floor like he had missed more than just a shot.

As they passed under the floodlights and into the corridor, the lights above flickered slightly, and for a brief second, it felt like they were walking into a world far removed from the chaos they had just come from. In that narrow tunnel, everything felt narrower still, hope, breath, belief.

The locker room greeted them with stale air and tiled silence. Some players sat down heavily, limbs aching. Others remained standing, pacing in small circles. Shirts clung to skin. Shin guards clattered to the floor. Boots were unlaced and kicked aside without ceremony. Falcone, Lecce’s miracle man of the first half, leaned against the wall, eyes closed for a moment, trying to calm the thunder of adrenaline still pounding in his veins.

Berisha sat hunched over, eyes on the floor, fingers laced together. Gallo sipped slowly from a bottle of water, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, maybe back out there on the pitch where the red shirts had swarmed them. Even Krstović, usually so vocal, was quiet. Everyone seemed to be waiting. Waiting for a reason to believe again.

And then, the door opened.

Alex Walker stepped inside, a black jacket slung over his shoulder, clipboard tucked under his arm. His footsteps echoed lightly as he entered, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. The heavy silence didn’t lift, but it sharpened into something new, attention, curiosity, something close to respect.

He paused at the threshold, letting his eyes sweep across the room. He saw it all. The exhaustion in their posture. The shadow of frustration in their eyes. The burn of missed opportunities. But he also saw something else. Something deeper. They had survived the storm. They had held out when no one expected them to. And he could work with that.

He took a breath, then stepped forward. When he spoke, his voice was steady and low, but it carried to every corner of the room.

"Listen up," he said, eyes moving from face to face. "We’re down by one. Yes. That’s true. But let me make something crystal clear, the score doesn’t define us. Not tonight. Not ever."

He let the words hang there. Let them settle into the cracks of their minds. Some players shifted in their seats. A few looked up. Falcone opened his eyes. Luca straightened slightly.

Alex continued, "We came here with a plan. And it worked. We absorbed pressure, we held the line. Falcone made miracles out there, and our shape held strong when it mattered most."

He gave a slight nod toward the keeper, who gave the smallest of smiles in return.

"But now," Alex said, pacing slowly down the row of benches, "we change gears. We stop sitting back and waiting. We go at them. We switch from 3–5–2 to 3–4–2–1."

There was a murmur of surprise from a few players, but no one spoke. They listened.

"Luca," Alex said, stopping in front of the sixteen-year-old, who was sitting upright now, eyes wide, "you step into one of the ten spots. Just behind Krstović. I need your creativity. I need your calm under pressure. You’ve got the vision to unlock them. This is your moment."

Luca gave a small nod, but his fingers gripped the edge of the bench tightly. He was nervous. Of course he was. But there was pride there too. A silent fire beginning to burn.

Alex turned to the rest of the room.

"Dorgu and Gallo," he said, "you push up just enough to give us width. You don’t bomb forward. You hold the line and support. Stay intelligent. No rash moves."

The two fullbacks exchanged a glance, then nodded firmly.

"Berisha, Ramadani, you’re the spine. Hold the midfield. Keep the structure. We don’t chase shadows. We wait, then strike."

They both murmured agreement, already beginning to visualize the flow of movement.

Alex raised his voice slightly, his tone now sharper, more commanding.

"Banda. Krstović. You two support Luca. Be sharp. Be aggressive. When we break, we break together. No solo runs. No selfish plays. We move like one."

He took another breath, then stopped in the center of the room. "Look," he said, voice softening, "we’re winners. And winners don’t flinch at San Siro. We fight. We dig in. We adapt. And we rise. That second half isn’t about damage control. It’s about pride. It’s about belief. So let’s get out there and remind them who we are."

For a second, silence again. But it wasn’t heavy anymore. It was charged. Like a fuse waiting to be lit. One by one, they stood. Falcone rolled his neck and stretched his arms. Berisha slapped his own chest twice and let out a breath. Gallo tied his laces with more force than necessary. Luca rose last, wiping his hands on his shorts, jaw clenched.

Alex turned toward the door, and they followed.

In the tunnel, the roar of the crowd grew louder with every step. The floodlights painted long shadows across the ground as the players formed into their line. Some bounced on their toes. Others muttered prayers under their breath. Banda stared forward, unblinking. Krstović rubbed his palms together, whispering instructions to himself.

Lecce’s fans, tucked high in one corner of the towering stadium, could be heard now. Their chants, though smaller in number, were louder in spirit. The players heard them. And it mattered.

Across from them, Milan’s players looked composed, confident. But there was a different tension now. A wary one. They had seen Lecce fight. They had felt their resistance. And now, something new stirred in the air.

Alex stood on the edge of the technical area, feet planted, eyes fixed on the field. His phone buzzed once in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out. A message. From Isabella.

"Proud of you. Keep going. Strength always."

He read it twice, then tucked the phone away. Focus returned.

On the pitch, the new shape was clear. The back three stood firm and ready. Wingbacks in position. Midfield tight and compact. Luca took up his position behind Krstović, adjusting his socks, taking it all in.

This wasn’t desperation. This was strategy. This was belief.

The referee walked toward the center circle, whistle ready.

Alex exhaled once, deep and full. His hand tightened slightly over his clipboard.

Then the whistle blew.

Lecce poured back onto the pitch, not limping, not crawling, but reborn. They moved like a team with a purpose now. With roles refined, with spirits reignited.

Inside the press box, the commentators leaned forward, heads craning over monitors, hands already hovering near microphones.

[ "There’s a different kind of energy about Lecce right now, you can just feel it... this isn’t the same team from the first half. You can see it in their eyes as they’re coming out for the second half, that is the look of a team that still believe that there’s a game to win." ]

[ "From the way they’re lining up, it looks like they’ve changed formation. Right now it looks like a 3-4-2-1 more than a 3-5-2, maybe they’re preparing to go on the attack. It’ll be interesting to see how exactly this change affects the match." ]

The stadium held its breath as both sides aligned.

Far from the touchline, the noise swelled, rising like a tidal wave.

Alex stood rooted, hands behind his back, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with the crowd’s chant. His team was ready. And so was he.

This was it. The second half had begun.

A/N: Second Chapter today, one more coming (pray for the author)