I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 87: Back to Back

Chapter 87: Back to Back

Ten days had passed since the gutting loss to Atalanta, but the wounds were still fresh, raw in the minds of everyone who wore the Lecce crest. They’d felt it, that sting, the ache that settled in the chest and refused to leave, the sharp memory of the final whistle and Lookman’s celebration cutting into them every time they closed their eyes.

But if that hurt, the pain had been compounded just the day before, when Lecce faced Spezia in a match they were expected to dominate, to control, to win without question.

Instead, they were humbled.

Beaten one nil by a team fighting for scraps near the bottom of the table.

It was the kind of match that people expected Lecce to win, the kind of match that people penciled in as a guaranteed three points, a chance to boost the goal difference, to flex the muscles they’d spent the season building.

But football didn’t care about expectations.

A clumsy challenge from Dorgu in the third minute, the kind of rash, overeager tackle that came from a place of wanting to do too much too quickly, gifted Spezia a penalty. They buried it without fuss, without drama, just a clean strike into the bottom corner, and from that moment on, it was a siege.

Lecce huffed, puffed, passed, crossed, shot, recycled, again and again and again, but nothing worked. Spezia defended with everything they had, throwing bodies in front of shots, clearing headers from under their own crossbar, time-wasting on every throw-in, living and dying by every tackle.

And when the final whistle blew, Spezia celebrated like they had just won the league.

The Lecce players stood on the pitch, hands on hips, heads tilted back, chests heaving, the weight of disappointment heavy in their limbs.

And now, on a chilly, gray morning at the training ground, the sky a flat sheet of dull clouds, the air carrying the promise of rain that hadn’t yet fallen, the Lecce players stood in a semicircle on the grass.

Their bodies were still.

Their expressions were tight.

No one laughed. No one cracked jokes. Not even Gallo or Banda, who were usually the first to lighten the mood, to throw a playful shove, to shout a teasing comment that made the others grin. Today, they stood in silence, the cold seeping through their training kits, breaths clouding faintly in the crisp air.

Alex Walker stood in front of them, arms crossed over his black training jacket, the wind tugging at the hem of it. His eyes were calm, clear, scanning the faces in front of him. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

His silence carried weight.

The sound of the birds in the nearby trees was the only noise for a moment, the rustle of leaves as a breeze moved through them, the distant thump of a ball being kicked on a faraway pitch.

Then, finally, Alex spoke.

His voice was calm. Firm. Controlled.

"I know it hurts."

The words were simple, but they cut through the silence, pulling eyes toward him, pulling shoulders straighter, drawing the players out of their fog.

Faces turned toward him.

"I know what it feels like to lose to a team you know you’re better than. I know that sick feeling in your stomach, that heaviness in your chest when you walk off the pitch and you know that it shouldn’t have gone that way."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air.

"I’ve lived it more times than I can count. And I know what you’re all thinking. How the hell did we let that happen?"

No one said a word.

They didn’t need to.

The silence was agreement.

Alex let his eyes move over them, seeing Krstovic’s clenched jaw, the way Banda’s shoulders slouched forward, the frustration burning in Gallo’s eyes, the quiet, pained stillness of Ferretti, who stood with his hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the grass, the posture of a young man who had tasted disappointment deeply for the first time.

Alex took a slow breath, the cold air filling his lungs, grounding him.

"But let me tell you something," he continued, his voice steady, gaining strength. "That match? That result? It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Because football doesn’t wait. It doesn’t stop for your pain. It doesn’t care if you’re tired. It doesn’t care if you’re still upset about last week. It keeps moving."

The wind picked up, tugging at their jackets, carrying the scent of damp grass, the promise of rain pressing down on them.

His eyes moved across them again, meeting their gazes, holding them.

"And we move with it."

He let the silence follow, let the words settle into them, let them find a place in the cracks that disappointment had left behind.

"We’re still Lecce," he said, his voice quiet but unyielding. "And we’re still in the fight. So you have a choice. You can wallow. You can feel sorry for yourselves. You can carry this loss into the next match. Or you can get back up. Train harder. Move faster. Play smarter. And when we step on that pitch again, we remind everyone exactly who the hell we are."

A few nods.

A couple of shoulders straightened.

The air felt different now, charged, ready.

Alex clapped his hands once, sharp and loud, the sound cracking through the cold morning.

"Alright," he said, the edge of command returning to his tone. "Light drills today. Loosen up. Shake it out. And then...that’s all. You also get tomorrow off. It’s a new year. Spend it with your family and friends, not on a pitch doing whatnot with a nearly forty years old man"

There was a beat of silence as the words registered, as if the players weren’t sure they’d heard correctly.

Gallo blinked, turning his head toward Alex, mouth opening in surprise. "Wait-what?"

Alex raised an eyebrow, letting the hint of a smile touch the corner of his lips. "You heard me. You’re off. Go home. Rest. Party. Sleep. Stare at a wall. I don’t care. Just come back ready."

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then, like a crack in ice, the tension broke.

A few players let out small cheers, cautious at first, testing the waters. Then a round of applause broke out, hands clapping together, the sound sharp in the cold air, echoing off the nearby walls.

Even Baschirotto cracked a rare smile, shaking his head as he clapped.

Helgason leaned over, nudging Ferretti with his elbow, his voice a playful whisper. "I think he might actually be going soft."

Ferretti grinned, the tension lifting from his shoulders. "Shut up and clap," he shot back, but his eyes were brighter now, the heaviness lightening, even if just for a moment.

Alex let the moment breathe, standing there as they laughed, as they clapped, as they allowed themselves to let go of the weight, just for a little while.

Then he gave a final nod. "Training dismissed. That’s it. Forwards, no extra drills today. I’ll see all of you fresh in the new year."

They didn’t need telling twice.

The players began to scatter, breaking away in small groups, laughter returning to their voices, jokes being cracked as they jogged back toward the changing rooms, the energy shifting, lifting, alive again.

But Alex didn’t linger.

As soon as the last player had turned away, he turned too, his boots crunching softly on the grass as he began to walk toward the main building. The laughter behind him faded into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of his steps, the cold air biting at his cheeks.

He had somewhere to be.

A meeting with the chairman.

The January transfer window was around the corner, and after back-to-back losses, Alex had no doubt what the meeting would be about.

Business.

The kind of business that determined how far Lecce could really go.

How far they could push.

How long they could fight.

His pace slowed a little as he approached the main office building of the training facility, the glass doors reflecting the gray sky, the clouds hanging low, pressing down on the world.

There was always something eerie about this corridor, the way the lights buzzed softly overhead, the clean smell of the polished floor, the faint echo of footsteps that made it feel like walking toward a verdict.

He reached the door.

Took a breath.

Knocked once, the sound soft but loud in the quiet hallway.

"Come in," came the familiar voice of the chairman from the other side.

Alex pushed the door open, stepped inside, his face unreadable, his mind already ticking through the possible scenarios, the negotiations, the player lists, the budget lines, the strategies that would need to be discussed.

This was the part people didn’t see.

The part that was quieter, colder, the part that happened off the pitch but decided everything that happened on it, something that was much more important than what happened on it.