I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 75: Who’s Getting Fucked?!

Chapter 75: Who’s Getting Fucked?!

Lecce’s training ground buzzed with fresh energy.

It was early, too early for most of them. The sun had only just begun to rise, casting long shadows across the pitch, painting the grass in a soft gold hue. The cool breeze that rolled off the Adriatic added a sharpness to the air, one that snapped at bare legs and flushed cheeks. Still, despite the lingering fog of sleep, the players had arrived on time.

That said something.

They were dragging themselves in, sure, rubbing their eyes, sipping from oversized water bottles, groaning as they bent to lace up their boots. But they were here. And there was a certain kind of purpose moving beneath the surface. An awareness that something had shifted after the Milan game. Something subtle. Something solid.

It felt like momentum.

Alex Walker stood alone at the center of the main pitch, arms folded behind his back, scanning the group. His gaze moved from face to face, some familiar, some still growing into their place. He didn’t bark. He didn’t need to. Just standing there in the quiet morning light, watching, was enough to make the group start inching toward him.

"Gather round," he said, his voice steady but clear. It cut through the quiet like a knife.

Boots scuffed against the ground as players jogged in from all corners. They formed a semi-circle around him, bibs pulled over training tops, a few still blinking into the sun. Banda was already bouncing on his toes. Gallo yawned and elbowed Dorgu for stealing his place.

Alex waited until every set of eyes was on him. Then he spoke.

"We play Atalanta next."

Simple. Casual. But even that drew a few raised eyebrows. Straight to the point.

He took a slow breath. "Everyone believes they’re going to win. The pundits. The press. Even some of the betting sites. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Atalanta players already booked their post-match dinner reservations."

That earned a few smirks. Krstovic looked down, rolling his neck. Ramadani crossed his arms.

Alex continued. "Everyone’s got their own version of belief. Their own reasons. The press believe Atalanta are stronger. The fans expect us to lose, because of last season, because of history, because it’s just easier to expect disappointment than dream big."

He took a few paces, slowly, letting the silence draw out.

"And Atalanta? They believe they’ll roll us over. Why? Because they’ve done it before. Because they think we’re just another team with a purple patch. A fun story. A soon-to-end Chapter."

His jaw tightened slightly.

"But that’s their expectation. Not mine. And it better not be yours either."

He turned, locking eyes with Banda. Then Gallo. Then Ferretti, standing just behind them.

"I want one thing burned into your skulls today. Etched in there like a scar. Atalanta are not going to come into our backyard and fuck us in the ass."

A split second of stunned silence passed.

Then chaos.

Laughter exploded across the group like someone had lit a fuse. Gallo bent over, wheezing. Banda fell into Dorgu. Even Pongračić, who usually looked like he ate gravel for breakfast, turned away, shoulders shaking with a grin.

"Gaffer!" Gallo managed through the gasps. "We’ve got kids here!"

Alex just raised a brow. He wasn’t laughing, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Barely.

He raised his hand, waiting patiently as the laughter trickled down into chuckles, then silence.

"I’m serious," he said, his voice calm again. "We’re not lying down for anyone. If someone’s getting fucked, we’ll be the ones doing the fucking. WE WILL FUCK ATALANTA IN THE ASS, YOU HEAR ME?!"

They did.

The air changed.

He wasn’t just cracking jokes now. They could feel it.

"We play our game. We press. We fight. We do everything we’ve trained to do. And we make sure Atalanta remember the name Lecce, not as a speed bump, but as a fucking roadblock. A problem they didn’t see coming."

Now they weren’t just listening.

They were nodding.

"Alright," Alex said, stepping back. "Enough chat. Let’s train."

And just like that, the switch flipped.

Training began with positional structure. Players divided into units. Defenders working in pairs and lines. Midfielders spacing and pressing under pressure. The forwards rotated through attacking channels. Alex walked among them, directing, correcting, encouraging.

"Keep your line tighter, Baschirotto!" he called out. "You’re drifting too wide."

"Ferretti, your angle. Watch the passing lane! You’re the hinge between attack and defense. Act like it!"

The sun climbed higher, shadows shrinking, heat settling in. Sweat glistened on foreheads. Voices rose with each rep. Mistakes were punished with quick sprints. Clean phases were rewarded with claps from Alex and his assistants.

Then came the rondos.

6v4 possession drills. Two-touch only. Constant movement. Losers dropped for push-ups or a chorus of jeers from the winners.

"If we want to play on the front foot," Alex shouted from the sideline, "keeping the ball under pressure needs to be muscle memory. I don’t want hopeful passes, I want smart ones. No ball watching. Eyes up. Awareness always!"

Mid-morning now. The sun had taken its place properly above them.

And so had the squad.

Something was different. Sharper. Even the younger players were barking orders. Banda snapped his fingers at the midfielders like a conductor. Ramadani barked warnings when a pass was too soft. Dorgu and Gallo collided on a slide tackle and both popped up laughing before going again.

Then came the real work.

In-game scenarios.

One team played Lecce’s system. The other mirrored Atalanta’s--aggressive wingbacks, double pivots, high line, counters that could kill you in five seconds.

Alex watched like a man watching a chessboard.

"I want you to recognize their triggers!" he shouted, pacing near the edge of the pitch. "When they push both fullbacks high, that’s when you break! Look for the channels, the space behind them, use it!"

And they did.

Helgason played a ball so clean through the lines it earned a round of applause from the coaching staff. Banda tracked back nearly forty yards to kill a counterattack. Even Ferretti made a run that split the defense and got a clap on the back from Krstovic.

They went again.

And again.

And again.

Until lungs were burning. Until legs began to wobble. Until Alex finally raised his whistle.

"That’s it! Cooldown and recovery!"

Half-groans, half-cheers. Players peeled off toward the smaller side pitch. Some dropped into stretches immediately. Others, like Baschirotto, kept jogging laps without prompting.

But not everyone left.

The forwards lingered.

Banda and Krstovic set up cones near the box. Finishing drills. Rapid volleys. Near-post runs. One-touch layoffs. Even Ferretti stayed, dragging his legs but refusing to be the first to quit.

Alex walked past them, boots in hand, sweat clinging to his back. He caught their eyes, nodded once, approving.

"Typical," he muttered with a faint smile.

He had just kicked off his boots inside the locker room, finally free of the sun, when his phone buzzed against the bench.

He reached for it with one hand while toweling off with the other.

Message from: Pantaleo Corvino"Chairman’s office. Now. You, me, and the big man. Don’t be late."

Alex blinked.

He read it again.

Then checked the time.

Sent: 47 seconds ago.

"Well, shit."

He wasn’t exactly worried. But his brain started moving. Had something gone wrong? Was it about the players? A missed doping test? A youth player causing drama? Maybe transfer funding? Maybe someone upstairs wanted to pull rank on January planning?

God forbid, were they going to tell him to calm down?

He shook his head, grabbed his bag, and started down the hallway. Staff members passed him, some nodding, others clearly wrapped in their own tasks. No one stopped him. But a few gave him looks. Unreadable ones.

His pace quickened.

By the time he reached the boardroom level, his mind had gone through at least thirteen different scenarios. Nine were bad. Three were worse. One involved accidentally signing a player’s twin brother.

He pushed open the frosted glass door marked Presidenza and stepped inside.