I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 83: Vs Atalanta (4)

Chapter 83: Vs Atalanta (4)

The referee’s whistle cut through the roar of the Stadio Via del Mare like a blade, slicing the noise in half for a single breath before it returned even louder, a rolling wave of voices and drums and horns that filled the humid night air. It was halftime, and somehow, Lecce had their noses in front against Atalanta. The scoreboard glowed like a promise above the tunnel as the players jogged off, sweat glistening on their brows, jerseys sticking to their backs, adrenaline still crackling through their veins like electricity.

They weren’t celebrating. Not yet. They knew this wasn’t over.

Alex Walker stood just inside the tunnel, his shadow long under the harsh lights, waiting for them to filter in. His hands rested on his hips, shoulders squared, eyes hard and cold, scanning each player as they passed, like a general inspecting his army after a skirmish. His jaw was tight, but his eyes burned with pride and something sharper, something older, a fire that came from every battle he had ever fought on a football pitch.

One by one, the players settled onto the benches, the damp air of the locker room filled with the scent of sweat, grass, and adrenaline. Some were breathing hard, their chests heaving, while others leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor, replaying every moment of the first half in their minds. They exchanged glances, nods of encouragement, silent acknowledgments of the fight still ahead. Equal parts fatigue and fire lived in their eyes.

Alex let the room quiet, the only sounds the echo of their breaths and the distant hum of the crowd outside, chanting and singing even during the break. He stepped forward, clearing his throat once before speaking, his voice carrying the calm weight of a man who had seen every storm football could throw.

"I’m proud of you."

He said it simply, without theatrics, and it was enough. Heads lifted, shoulders straightened. Banda leaned back against the wall with a small, tired smile. Falcone rolled his shoulders and nodded, eyes locked on Alex. Even the youngest, Ferretti, just a teenager with fear and fire in equal measure behind his eyes, seemed to grow taller on the bench.

"You’ve done what most people thought was impossible. We’re ahead. Against Atalanta. You earned that. Nobody gave it to you. You took it."

There was a moment, a flicker, a ripple of pride that moved across the players, their chests expanding with the truth of it. They had fought for this.

But Alex’s expression shifted, hardening, eyes narrowing as the fire returned.

"But this game is far from over."

He let the words sink in, the silence in the room suddenly heavy.

"We all know how Gasperini’s teams come out after the break. They will hit us hard. Ten, fifteen minutes, they will throw everything at us. That’s when they will try to break us. That’s when they will look to kill this game."

His eyes moved across them, sharp and steady, meeting the gaze of each player. Krstovic, Gallo, Dorgu, Pongracic, Helgason, Baschirotto, Banda. And finally, Falcone, who was breathing deeply, the sweat still dripping from his hair.

"But that is not going to happen. Not today."

Alex took another step forward, the intensity in his voice rising.

"I want discipline. I want composure. I want you to trust the shape. Trust each other. Frustrate them. Make them panic. And once we weather that storm..."

He paused, letting the anticipation build, his voice dropping to a near growl.

"...we go for the throat. We kill the game."

A low murmur moved through the room, boots shifting on the concrete floor, fists tightening. Gallo cracked his knuckles, Banda tilted his head back and exhaled, Ferretti clenched his jaw, and even the normally calm Falcone sat up straighter, a faint grin appearing on his lips.

Alex clapped once, loud and sharp, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot.

"Let’s finish this."

They stood, one by one, the room alive now with the silent pulse of purpose, the players rolling their shoulders, adjusting their socks, fixing their gaze forward. They filed out of the tunnel together, the tunnel lights flickering over their heads, the low hum of the outside world swelling louder with every step.

As they emerged, the roar of the crowd washed over them, a wave of sound that made the heart pound faster, the chants of the Curva Nord Lecce rising above everything, a wall of yellow and red banners shaking with every beat of the drums.

Atalanta were already waiting, gathered on their half, blue and black stripes under the lights, their eyes sharp, their body language tense but eager, predators ready to strike.

The referee checked his watch, lifted his whistle to his lips, and blew.

The restart came quickly.

And just like Alex had predicted, Atalanta came flying out of the gates, a hurricane of movement and aggression, pressing high, swarming the midfield, forcing Lecce to scramble for shape.

Within the first three minutes, they cracked Lecce open.

A quick interchange between Koopmeiners and de Roon in the center of the park was like the flick of a switch, a one-two that pulled Helgason out of position and opened the right channel like a wound. De Ketelaere, drifting from the half-space like a ghost, received the ball in stride and delivered a sharp, low pass that split Baschirotto and Pongracic.

And there was Lookman, the danger man all night, ghosting in behind the line, the ball sticking to his feet as if magnetized. His first touch killed the ball’s speed, his second sent it skimming across the grass toward the far post with a vicious precision that made the stadium hold its breath.

["LOOOKKKKMAN AGAINNNNN! HE’S BEEN ABSOLUTELY ELECTRIC ALL NIGHT, CUTTING THROUGH DEFENDERS LIKE THEY’RE NOT EVEN THERE! THAT ONE NEARLY BENT INTO THE BOTTOM CORNER, FOLKS, AND YOU COULD SEE FALCONE SCRAMBLING, DIVING FULL STRETCH, JUST PRAYING THAT WOULD MISS!"]

The ball flashed just inches wide.

Alex clenched his fists on the sideline, his eyes tracking the ball even as it rolled out. He was already standing, shouting instructions to push the line up, to keep the shape tight, to breathe.

But Atalanta weren’t done.

In the 51st minute, the next wave crashed down.

A long diagonal from Scalvini soared through the humid night air, dropping like a dagger over Gallo’s shoulder as Zappacosta came flying down the left. The Atalanta wingback took it in stride, flicked the ball inside with a clever feint that left Gallo stumbling, and cut in toward the edge of the box.

Zappacosta didn’t look for glory. He curled a dangerous, teasing ball into the six-yard box with perfect weight, the kind of ball that defenders hate, the kind that freezes goalkeepers, the kind that invites chaos.

Hojlund rose for it, leaping between Pongracic and Baschirotto, his neck snapping forward as he met the ball with his forehead, a bullet header aimed at the top corner.

["IT’S A BULLET HEADER FROM HOJLUND... OH MY WORD, FALCONNNNNEEEE! WITH THE REFLEXES OF A CAT, A PANTHER, A LION, HE TIPS IT AWAY! THAT IS A MONSTER, MONSTER SAVE, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, FROM THE LECCE KEEPER!"]

Gasps and cries of relief echoed around Via del Mare, the tension so thick it was almost physical. Even a few of the Atalanta fans scattered around the stadium clapped, unable to hide their appreciation for a save of that quality.

Falcone lay on the ground for a moment, chest heaving, staring up at the lights, the taste of sweat and adrenaline sharp on his tongue before he rolled over, hopping up and waving his defenders back into position.

Alex was on the sideline, barking, arms waving, pulling his team together, trying to force the chaos back into order.

"Compact! Compact! CLOSE THE CHANNEL! CLOSE THE F- CLOSE THE CHANNEL!"

They responded, the yellow shirts compressing into a tight block, bodies shifting together like a single living thing.

In the 53rd minute, Lecce struck back with a breath of hope. Ferretti, fearless, picked up the ball deep in their half and shuffled it wide to Helgason, who didn’t hesitate. A quick one-two with Gallo on the flank pulled Atalanta’s line sideways, just enough to open a channel, and the ball found its way to Krstovic just outside the box.

Krstovic held it up, his back to goal, feeling the pressure from behind, rolling his shoulders before spinning sharply, unleashing a low effort that skidded across the turf, flashing past the upright.

["THAT’S MORE LIKE IT FROM LECCE! THAT IS BETTER, THAT IS DIRECT, THAT IS CONFIDENT FOOTBALL! THEY NEED TO KEEP ATALANTA HONEST, THEY NEED TO KEEP PUSHING, OR ELSE THEY’LL BE BURIED UNDER THIS PRESSURE!"]

But the moment passed like a breath.

Because in the 55th minute, chaos struck.

Koopmeiners stole the ball from Helgason in midfield, the young Icelandic midfielder left on the ground as the Atalanta captain surged forward, eyes up, boots pounding the grass. He didn’t delay, didn’t pause, fed the ball forward to De Ketelaere who turned with the ease of a man in his backyard, head swiveling.

["DE KETELAERE SPOTS LOOKMAN... OH NO, OH NO, HERE HE COMES AGAIN!"]

The pass was perfect, a slide-rule ball that evaded Baschirotto’s desperate stretch, rolling like a whisper into Lookman’s stride.

Lookman didn’t slow. He took it in stride, his feet a blur, skipping past a diving Pongracic who crashed into the turf helplessly, and glided into the box, drawing Falcone out.

Alex stood frozen on the sideline, hands on his knees, eyes wide.

Falcone threw himself forward, trying to make himself big, to close the angle.

Lookman touched the ball past him, calmly, like a man swatting away a fly, before opening his body and slotting the ball into the empty net with casual cruelty.

["GOOOOOAAAAALLLLLLL! ATALANTA ARE LEVEL AGAIN! ADEMOOOLLLAAA LOOOOOKKMAAANNNN WITH A SOLO MASTERPIECE! HE DOES IT ALL HIMSELF, PICKS HIS MOMENT, TAKES HIS CHANCE, AND YOU CANNOT, YOU CANNOT GIVE HIM THAT MUCH SPACE, BECAUSE HE WILL PUNISH YOU EVERY SINGLE TIME!"]

The away section exploded, blue flares igniting behind the goal, smoke swirling as voices roared and sang, scarves waving in the humid air.

["AND WOULD YOU JUST LISTEN TO THAT NOISE? THIS IS MORE THAN A GOAL TO THEM. REMEMBER, ALEX WALKER, STANDING ON THAT LECCE TOUCHLINE, SCORED THIRTY OF HIS TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY TWO CAREER GOALS AGAINST ATALANTA ACROSS THREE DIFFERENT CLUBS. HE WAS THEIR NIGHTMARE, THEIR TORMENTOR, THEIR UNENDING PROBLEM. AND THEY HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN. NOT FOR A SECOND."]

Alex didn’t react. Not outwardly. He didn’t flinch at the noise, didn’t blink at the flares, didn’t acknowledge the chanting directed at him, didn’t look at the away fans celebrating the moment like a trophy.

But inside, it stung. Not the chants, not the flares, not even the jeers.

It was the goal. The way it had come. The way it had undone the nearly flawless work of the first half. The way it had opened the door again.

Game on.

Lookman jogged back toward the center circle, pointing skyward, grinning as his teammates swarmed him, clapping him on the back, ruffling his hair, the stadium shaking with noise.

Alex clapped once, slowly, deliberately, pulling his players’ eyes back to him.

"Let’s go," he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos, not aimed at any single player, but at all of them, a command and a promise in one. "Heads up. This isn’t done. Not by a long shot."

He turned, briefly, to the dugout, catching Isabella’s eyes. She was watching, a flicker of concern there, her lips pressed tight, but she didn’t speak.

Alex turned back to the pitch.

Forty minutes to go.

Time to find another answer.

A/N:

Remember,

5 golden tickets = 1 extra Chapter

75 Power Stones = 1 extra Chapter

5 gifts of any kind = 1 extra Chapters

1 super gift (magic castle ahh gift) = 5 extra Chapters and my eternal gratitude