I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 78: Late

"Press conference," she said quietly, her voice calm but pointed.

Alex, still holding the mug of coffee he had been nursing since early morning, glanced up at her with a tired look. The mug was mostly empty by now, its contents lukewarm and bitter. Still, it gave him something to hold. Something to delay.

"Already?" he asked.

Isabella nodded. "You are late."

That was all it took. Alex sat upright in his chair like a student caught napping in class. Well, he was currently holding a cup of coffee because he didn’t want to fall asleep.

"Right," he muttered, standing and reaching for the jacket slung over the back of his chair.

She waited without saying another word. No nagging, no sarcasm, just stillness. She was already walking by the time he threw the jacket over his shoulder. They moved together down the corridor that led out of the training center toward the media wing.

The air was colder here, and not just in temperature. Something about the silence between them made Alex aware of his own breathing. It was not awkward. Not hostile. Just... different. Like something that used to be easy had become fragile overnight.

He noticed it right away. Isabella’s footsteps were quicker than usual. Her grip on the tablet was a little tighter. And even though they were walking side by side, she never once turned to look at him.

Alex cast her a glance or two, subtle ones, but said nothing. This was not the place to ask questions.

Not now. Not here.

By the time they reached the doors to the press room, the noise was already spilling out. Familiar voices, the scrape of chairs being dragged, the clicking of keyboards, and the quiet rumble of reporters trading pre-press gossip.

Inside, the usual suspects had gathered. Marco Rinaldi from Gazzetta dello Sport, always dressed like he had brunch plans afterward. Chiara Bruno from Sky Italia, sharp, well-informed, and always polite even when her questions hit hard. And of course, Max Conti from CalcioReport, a man whose smirk was more permanent than most tattoos.

There were new faces too. Young reporters with big eyes and bigger dreams, hovering over their laptops like soldiers waiting for the whistle to charge.

Alex made his way to the front of the room, took his seat, and adjusted the mic slightly.

The red light on the microphone blinked on.

Chiara was the first to speak. She always was. She had a quiet authority about her that made people pause before jumping in.

"Alex," she began with a warm smile, "after that incredible comeback against AC Milan, how do you keep the team grounded before facing a side like Atalanta?"

Alex gave a brief, wry smile. "By reminding them that the next game always starts at zero to zero. Milan gave us a moment to enjoy, sure. But Atalanta is something else entirely. They are fast, they are smart, and they will punish us if we get carried away remembering last week instead of preparing for tomorrow."

Before the room had time to digest that, Marco Rinaldi leaned forward slightly and spoke in his measured tone.

"Atalanta have scored eleven goals in their last three games. Does that worry you?"

Alex chuckled softly. "If it didn’t worry me, I would be an idiot. But football is not about fear. It is about control. We have worked on our shape, worked on our transitions, and we know they are dangerous. But so are we. They will have chances. So will we."

A hand rose from the back. Young guy. Nervous. Probably his first time getting the mic.

"Coach," he began, voice shaky, "about Patrick Dorgu. There are reports Manchester United are preparing a bid north of twenty million euros. Is the club ready to sell?"

The question changed the air in the room. Isabella shifted slightly, glancing down at her tablet. Her fingers gripped it tighter.

Alex’s eyes narrowed for half a second. His jaw flexed.

He leaned in.

"I am going to say this one last time, alright?" His voice was calm but clipped. "Patrick Dorgu is our player. He is a very good player. And when you have good players, bigger clubs come sniffing. That is how football works. But unless something official lands on my desk with a signature and a goodbye, Patrick Dorgu is not going anywhere."

He paused, just long enough to let the silence stretch.

"And honestly, I am getting tired of answering this question every single week."

The silence that followed was sharp. Even Max Conti’s fingers froze above his keys.

Chiara tried to steer things back.

"On a different note, Alex," she said, "Luca Ferretti has been earning praise after recent appearances. Do you see him continuing in that advanced role?"

Alex gave a small nod.

"Luca is flexible. He can play deep, he can push forward. That is what makes him valuable. But let us not get carried away. He is still a kid. A talented one, yes. But my job is to protect him from all of this. Let him grow. Let him breathe."

There was a light murmur around the room, mostly approving. Even Max seemed to be jotting notes without a snide remark for once.

The questions kept coming after that. Some about upcoming fixtures. Others about Lecce’s run in the Coppa Italia, or the club’s mix of veterans and academy graduates.

But while Alex gave thoughtful answers, his mind wandered. Back to the meeting with the chairman. To Dorgu’s uncertain future. To the ever-present hum of the system in the back of his mind, feeding him quiet tactical predictions, nudging his attention forward.

Isabella finally leaned over and whispered something into his ear.

"Wrap it up."

Alex looked at her, then back at the room.

"Alright. That is all for today. I know you have jobs to do, and I have a match to prepare for. Let us all hope it is a good one."

He stood, the chair scraping back behind him. The flash of cameras was instant.

He gave a nod to the room, then walked off with Isabella just a few steps behind.

The hallway outside felt colder than before. Not physically, just emotionally drained. The silence between them resumed.

Finally, when they turned the corner and the last echoes of the press room faded, Alex glanced at her.

"You alright?"

She paused for just a moment, then gave a faint nod. "Yeah. Just tired."

He watched her for a moment. He could push. He could press.

But he didn’t.

"You and me both," he said quietly.

And together, they walked down the hall.

The silence was still there.

But it no longer felt heavy.

Not quite.

The match was getting closer now.

And soon, belief and expectation would finally meet the truth.

On the pitch.