I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 86: A Bend In The Road

Chapter 86: A Bend In The Road

The press room wasn’t buzzing like it had been after the Milan match. No laughter echoing off the concrete walls. No cheeky smirks exchanged between journalists in the front row. No excited whispers passing from camera crew to camera crew about "Alex Walker’s Lecce magic." The energy in the room was lower now, muted, like a thick fog had settled in the corners. Respectful, even.

Because Lecce had lost their first match under Alex Walker.

But the performance had been anything but disgraceful.

Luca Ferretti stood awkwardly in front of the sponsor backdrop, the cheap white lights above him humming, shining down with that unforgiving brightness that made sweat glisten on young skin and cast shadows under tired eyes. He blinked into the lights, shifting from one foot to another, the lenses of cameras glinting like a wall of tiny, watchful eyes.

He still had braces on his bottom row of teeth.

It was a small reminder that despite the poise he’d shown in the midfield, despite the way he’d split Atalanta’s defense with a pass some professionals would have missed, he was still just a teenager, clutching his water bottle a little too tight as the microphones were nudged closer to him.

A journalist from La Repubblica asked the first question, voice calm but clear. "Luca, hard result today. You were fantastic in the middle of the park, but how did it feel to experience your first loss with the senior team?"

Luca swallowed, the sound loud in his ears. He scratched the back of his neck, feeling the heat of the lights on his skin. "Yeah, it’s... tough," he said, his voice cracking just a touch before he cleared it with a small cough. "We all wanted to win. We prepared for it. Fought for it. But sometimes, football just doesn’t go your way, you know? It’s still surreal for me, playing matches like this, in front of these fans, in this stadium. But I know I’ve got to keep improving. This isn’t the end for me or for us."

His honesty landed in the quiet of the room like a stone dropping into a still lake.

Another voice, softer and more casual, came from the left, a local reporter, face familiar from the training ground press days. "Luca, that pass to start the counter for the second goal was top class. Where’d you learn to play like that, eh?"

Luca laughed, a short, shy sound, and the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. "Ah, I’ve watched a lot of football," he admitted, glancing down at his boots before looking back up with a small, crooked smile. "Studied the game a lot, too. And the coaches here... Mister Walker, he’s always on me about scanning before I get the ball, always knowing what’s next. I guess... yeah, it’s paying off."

There was a pause, then a third journalist leaned forward, older, glasses perched on the edge of his nose. "Luca, you’ve been playing alongside guys with way more experience than you, players like Banda and Krstovic and Gallo. How’s that been for you, sharing the pitch with them under pressure like today?"

Luca’s face softened as he thought about it, his thumb running over the label on his water bottle. "They’ve been brilliant," he said, voice firmer now. "They don’t treat me like a kid, you know? They trust me. They help me. Banda always tells me to take risks, and Krstovic, he’s always giving me options up front. Gallo’s like... he’s like a big brother in training. It’s easier to play well when you know your teammates have your back."

He sounded like a student, grateful to even be on the field, even though anyone watching could see the maturity in the way he moved, the calmness in how he received the ball, the creativity he brought to every touch.

A few more questions came. Luca answered them honestly, sometimes stumbling over a word, sometimes needing a moment to think, but each time his eyes shone with that clear, bright spark of someone who loved football more than anything else in the world.

Isabella, standing just to the side, checked her watch and took a small step forward, gently tapping Luca’s shoulder. "That’s enough for now, Luca," she said, her voice kind but efficient. "Good job."

Luca nodded, relief flickering across his face, and stepped aside, taking a sip from his bottle, the plastic crinkling under his grip.

Then Alex Walker stepped up to the mic.

Still in his black tracksuit, still with his arms folded across his chest, the posture of a man who hadn’t moved since the final whistle, holding himself together with the last threads of adrenaline still left in his system. His eyes were calm but sharp, and for a moment, the room was completely silent.

No boos. No jeers. No disrespect.

Just silence and waiting.

Chiara from Sky Italia was the first to speak, her notepad resting on her knee, pen ready. "Alex, commiserations on the result. You were five minutes from holding a draw against a top team. How are you feeling right now?"

Alex took a slow breath, letting it fill his lungs before releasing it. His voice was low, level, but carried to every corner of the room. "It hurts," he said simply, the honesty cutting through the quiet like a blade. "I won’t lie to you. We gave everything. The players left their hearts out there on that pitch, and when you do that, it hurts to lose. But it’s my job to take responsibility for what happens out there. And this? This isn’t the end of the road for us. It’s just an obstacle in the path. We’ll rise above it. We’ll get back to winning ways."

There was a pause as pens scratched across paper, fingers tapped on phone screens.

Marco Rinaldi raised his hand next, glasses reflecting the bright lights. "Alex, there was a clear shift in Atalanta’s pressure in the second half. Did something break down tactically on your end?"

Alex shook his head, steady. "No, nothing broke down," he said. "They’re a good side. They adapt, they press, and they don’t stop coming at you. We matched them for most of the game. But football can turn on a moment of brilliance, and today, Lookman had more than one of those moments. Sometimes you have to tip your hat."

Another journalist asked about Luca Ferretti’s performance.

A small smile touched Alex’s lips, brief but real. "Luca was excellent," he said, glancing toward the side where the young midfielder was now standing, head down, scrolling through his phone. "The kid’s got a brain that’s five years ahead of his age. That ball he played for the second goal? Most professionals don’t see that, let alone execute it under pressure. He’ll only get better from here, and it’s my job to protect that development, to make sure he can keep growing without being crushed by expectations."

Max Conti tried to add a bit of edge to the proceedings, leaning forward. "Does this loss change your outlook on Lecce’s goals this season, Alex? Still aiming midtable or higher?"

Alex’s eyes locked onto Max, unwavering. "The goal hasn’t changed," he replied. "The path might bend, but the destination remains the same. This team has the quality to compete, and that hasn’t changed because of one result."

There were a few more questions, the journalists pressing for small details, small admissions, but Alex remained composed, never lashing out, never letting the frustration twist his words. Yes, he was disappointed. Yes, the loss hurt. But one result was not going to break him, and it wasn’t going to break Lecce.

Finally, Isabella gave the wrap-up signal, her hand slicing through the air in a clean motion. "That’s all for today. Thanks for your time."

The cameras lowered. Flashes dimmed. Laptops began to close, the clack of keyboards slowing to a stop, the quiet hum of the press room returning, settling into the walls.

Alex stepped off the platform, exhaling slowly, the last of the adrenaline fading now, leaving behind that hollow feeling that always followed a loss, not despair, but an echo that lingered in the chest, reminding him of the work left to do.

He fell into step beside Isabella as they began the walk down the corridor, the tunnel lights flickering softly, the echo of their footsteps the only sound between them. The corridor felt longer than usual tonight, each step heavier, like the weight of the evening was pressing down on them, stretching the distance to the locker room.

Neither of them spoke at first. It wasn’t necessary.

Then Isabella’s phone buzzed in her hand, the screen lighting up. She answered it quickly, pressing it to her ear, her brows furrowing even before the caller spoke. Her lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line as she listened, her eyes darkening.

Alex looked at her, the shift in her posture, the tension in her shoulders impossible to miss. "Everything okay?" he asked, his voice calm but carrying that edge of concern that he couldn’t quite hide.

She turned her head, meeting his eyes, her expression unreadable but strained. "I have to go. Now."

"Is it something serious?" he pressed, gentle but firm.

She hesitated, just for a moment, then shook her head, half-shrugging. "I’m not sure yet," she said, her voice tight, clipped. "I’ll call you."

She was already turning, heading down another hallway, phone back to her ear, her steps quick, purposeful, leaving him standing there in the middle of the tunnel.

Alex stood in place for a moment, watching her disappear into the dim corridor, the hum of the lights above him filling the silence she left behind.

He exhaled.

Losses on the pitch, he could handle. Those were part of the job. Part of the game. Part of football.

It was everything else that always managed to knock him off balance.

Still, he turned back toward the locker room, adjusting the zip on his tracksuit, rolling his shoulders back, letting the weight settle on him like an old, familiar coat.

His players were waiting.

And tomorrow, they would train.

The season was far from over.