I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 85: A Resolute Promise

Chapter 85: A Resolute Promise

The final whistle had barely left the referee’s lips before Atalanta’s players turned to one another with fists clenched and arms raised, breaths misting in the cool night air, the lights of the Via del Mare glinting in the sweat streaking down their faces. A few sank to their knees in exhaustion and triumph, clutching the grass like it was the last solid thing they could hold onto after ninety minutes of chaos. Lookman, who had carved his name into the match with a hat trick that would live long in memory, let out a guttural roar toward the away fans, arms stretched wide, chest heaving, eyes blazing with the savage joy of victory.

The stadium buzzed with noise. It was layered, cheers, groans, sighs of heartbreak, chants, the rhythmic pounding of drums that never truly stopped even in defeat. Flags waved, scarves were raised, but it was clear to anyone with eyes which side had come out on top tonight.

Alex Walker stood near the technical area, motionless for a long few seconds, his boots planted firmly on the damp grass, his gaze fixed on a patch of turf just past his toes where the light caught each blade of grass like tiny shards of glass. The taste of defeat was bitter, bitter and... unfortunately familiar. But as the manager of Lecce, it was a new thing. He had known setbacks, but this was different. For the first time since he had taken charge of Lecce, they had lost.

The scoreboard behind him still glowed: 3-2.

A simple reminder.

But he didn’t have the luxury of sulking. Not here. Not now.

He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself against the weight pressing down on his shoulders, and then looked up, scanning the pitch, taking in the sight of his players. Gallo bent over with hands on his knees, sweat dripping onto the grass below him. Falcone wiping at his face with his gloves, exhaustion clinging to him like a second jersey. Ferretti standing with his hands on his hips, eyes distant, lost somewhere between the last whistle and the regret of what might have been.

Alex lifted a hand.

"Come on," he called out, his voice even, firm, cutting through the low hum of disappointment that had settled around them. "All of you. Front of the fans. Now."

The players lifted their heads, slowly at first, like men waking from a heavy dream, but they moved. Together. No one dropped their gaze to the ground. No shirts were tossed away in frustration. No boots were kicked in anger. They walked as one, across the grass that had become a battlefield, each step steady, each stride deliberate.

And as they neared the Lecce supporters’ section, something unexpected happened.

The fans, packed tightly in their corner of the stadium, rose to their feet. One by one, then all at once, like a wave rolling upward.

They started clapping.

Clapping.

And then, voices began to rise, softly at first, then stronger, weaving together into a chant that rose above the drums and the fading echoes of the away fans’ celebrations.

["Oh, Alex Walker, he walks with pride"]

["Took our Lecce on a magic ride! "]

It wasn’t loud enough to shake the stadium. It wasn’t a roar that rattled the boards or made the lights tremble. But it carried.

And to Alex, it cut deeper than any post-match analysis, any bitter headline, any statistic that would be thrown at him tomorrow morning.

It sank into him, warmed him, wrapped itself around the bitterness in his chest like a bandage.

Pride. Gratitude. Responsibility.

He looked at his players.

Dorgu lifted a hand toward the fans, his fingers trembling slightly as he held it aloft. Falcone walked forward, scanning the front row, before pulling off his gloves and handing them to a boy with wide eyes, the child clutching them to his chest like treasure. Krstovic clapped above his head, the sound of it echoing faintly across the pitch. Gallo pressed both hands to his heart, eyes shimmering, mouthing words of thanks. And Luca Ferretti, still barely out of his academy years, looked around with wide eyes, his lips parted, like he was seeing all of this for the very first time.

They had lost.

But they hadn’t failed.

["They came out here and played their hearts out," one commentator said, his voice softer than it had been during the chaos of the match, tinged with respect. "And their fans, they know it. They see it."]

["That chant, just listen to it. You can’t buy that kind of love. You can’t fake it. You earn it. Every single minute you fight for this shirt, you earn it. And these boys, they’ve earned it tonight."]

Alex stood there, arms crossed now, watching, listening, letting it sink in, letting it fill the cracks that the loss had left behind.

A part of him, the part that still pulsed with the fire of a player, wanted to turn to the crowd, to cup his hands around his mouth and shout to them, promise them that this was only the beginning, that they would come back stronger, that today was not a full stop but merely a comma in the story they were writing together.

But he knew better.

Football wasn’t about promises.

Football was about the next ninety minutes.

Still, as the players began to turn back toward the tunnel, their steps a little lighter, the fans still singing, still clapping, still lifting their scarves into the night, Alex remained standing, rooted to the spot, drinking it all in, letting the sound of his name on their lips become a vow etched deep inside him.

He would repay them.

No matter what.

["Listen to them. They’re not singing because they won. They’re singing because they believe. Because this is what football is all about. The hope. The fight. The love."]

["And you can see it on Alex Walker’s face. This isn’t over. This is just the start of something special for Lecce."]

Finally, Alex turned, the weight of the defeat still there, but lighter now, something he could carry, something he could use. He began to follow his players, stepping across the white line that marked the boundary between the pitch and the rest of the world.

He had barely crossed when he saw her.

Isabella.

She stood near the edge of the tunnel, arms folded, her dark hair catching the light of the stadium, her expression unreadable in the glow of the floodlights. But the moment she caught sight of him, the corner of her lips quirked upward, just enough to soften the edges of her usual sharpness.

"You know you still owe the press a few words, right?" she said, her voice calm, but there was an undercurrent of amusement there, the ghost of a smile in her eyes.

Alex exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. "Of course I do."

She tilted her head, eyebrow lifting. "You say that like it’s a chore."

"Only when we lose," Alex replied, a dry smile breaking through as he ran a hand over the back of his neck, the tension loosening just a little.

Isabella’s gaze shifted, looking past him, toward the tunnel where the players were filtering in, jerseys clinging to them, sweat-soaked and heavy, heads lowered but not defeated.

"Luca," she called out.

Ferretti, who had just been about to disappear down the tunnel, paused and turned, his eyebrows raised, a question already on his lips.

"Me?" he asked, voice cracking slightly from exhaustion and the weight of the night.

"You’re coming too," Isabella said, nodding once.

"Uh, why?" Luca asked, blinking rapidly, looking between Isabella and Alex.

Isabella’s lips curved into a smirk. "Apparently, you’re everyone’s favorite new toy. The press wants a word."

Luca scratched at the back of his head, his hair sticking up in odd directions, his cheeks flushed. "I haven’t even scored yet."

"Try telling them that," Isabella said, her smirk widening into something almost resembling a smile.

Alex let out a low chuckle, stepping forward and clapping a hand onto Luca’s shoulder, the young midfielder nearly stumbling under the weight of it before straightening. "Come on, kid. Let’s go give them their quotes before Isabella decides to drag us by the ear."

Luca managed a small grin, his eyes still darting around as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. "Yes, coach."

As they walked down the tunnel together, the lights above them buzzing faintly, illuminating the tunnel in stark white, the sounds of the fans still lingering behind them like distant thunder, Alex felt the weight of the loss settle fully onto his shoulders, pressing down like a reminder of the reality of football.

But it didn’t crush him.

He could carry this.

Because behind the sting of the defeat, behind the scoreboard that would be printed in tomorrow’s papers and replayed on highlight reels, there was still hope.

Still belief.

The fans had sung for them even in defeat.

The players had walked off the pitch together.

And that was more than enough for now.