I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 88: Four Hundred Thousand Pounds

Chapter 88: Four Hundred Thousand Pounds

Alex stepped into the chairman’s office expecting spreadsheets, scouting reports, maybe even a frustrating conversation about the January transfer budget, arguments over scouting lists and statistical targets, maybe a debate about wages and whether Lecce could afford to push for the extra midfielder he needed.

What he didn’t expect was silence.

The air inside the office felt strangely still, heavy, almost thick, like the moments before a thunderstorm. No papers spread across the desk, no mugs with coffee rings and pencil scribbles along the sides, no staff waiting quietly in the corners. Just the chairman, seated behind his desk with his elbows resting on the wood, his hands folded neatly, and a curious look in his eyes.

The sporting director wasn’t even there, which was odd, given the time of year.

Alex stood there for a moment, blinking, trying to recalibrate.

"Chairman," Alex said, giving him the usual respectful nod.

"Alex," the chairman replied, his voice even, calm, motioning for him to sit with a small flick of his wrist.

Alex obeyed, lowering himself into the chair, trying to keep his posture straight, trying to ignore the tension building in his legs, the slight twitch in his calf as he settled.

"So," he began, trying to set the tone, "January plans? I’ve got a few ideas I’ve been working on with the system, target profiles in case we can shift some salaries, and-"

The chairman raised a hand, palm out, stopping him mid-sentence.

"We’ll get to that," he said casually.

Then, after a heartbeat, his tone shifted, not by much, but enough for Alex to catch it, a thread of something that was somewhere between amused and serious, as if he wasn’t sure which one it should be.

"But first, I wanted to ask you something... a little different."

Alex felt his back press slightly into the chair, leaning back without realizing, uncertain now, his mind shifting gears to a cautious neutral.

"Alright," Alex said carefully. "Go on."

The chairman raised his eyebrows, the corners of his lips twitching as if the words were searching for the right shape.

"Isabella Rossetti," he said finally. "Your press officer. You two seem... quite..."

He trailed off, leaving the sentence open, eyebrows lifted as if inviting Alex to fill in the blank.

Alex tilted his head slightly. "Close?" he offered, cautious.

"Yes. Close. That’s the word." The chairman nodded, his eyes not leaving Alex’s face, studying him. "Has anything seemed... off with her lately?"

The question was like a quiet jolt, a cold breath against the back of Alex’s neck.

His eyes narrowed slightly, a tension in his jaw as he answered, "Why? Did something happen?"

The chairman waved a hand, brushing at the air like he was trying to clear away smoke.

"I’m not saying anything happened," he said quickly. "Just asking. She’s been acting strange, hasn’t she? Leaving early. Distracted. Even skipped press duties before the last match."

Alex’s mind began working, flipping back through the last few days, the last few weeks. The mood she had been in before the Atalanta match, the way she had rushed away after that phone call, the quietness since then, the times he had caught her staring into space, chewing at her lip without realizing.

"I don’t know what’s going on," he admitted, his voice lower. "But now I’m a bit worried."

The chairman let out a slow sigh, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the desk before stopping. Then, as if he had come to a decision in that moment, he reached into the drawer on his right and pulled out a single sheet of paper, crisp, folded once across the middle.

He tapped the corner of it with his finger, a soft but deliberate sound.

"I probably shouldn’t even be showing you this," the chairman said. "And if I get sued for disclosing confidential staff information..." He paused, shooting Alex a pointed, faux-glare that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "You’re covering the legal fees."

Alex let out a shaky, uncertain breath, a nervous half-smile forming. "You’re joking, right?"

The chairman’s face was unreadable. "Depends."

Then he slid the paper across the desk.

Alex took it without hesitation, unfolding it with careful fingers, his eyes dropping immediately to the bold header at the top: Staff Loan Request Form.

It was official. Stamped. Signed.

Signed by Isabella Rossetti.

His eyes moved quickly, reading the form, taking in the details, the numbers.

The amount requested.

Four hundred thousand pounds.

Alex blinked, once, twice, his brain trying to process it, the zeroes almost floating off the page.

That was nearly five years of her salary.

His eyes moved down, finding the field explaining the purpose of the loan: Medical expenses. Full amount to be paid to Santa Lucia Medica Privata.

His breath caught, a sharp inhale he tried to control.

Santa Lucia Medica Privata.

He knew that place. Everyone in Lecce did.

It was just a few kilometers from the Via del Mare, standing tall on a quiet street, with white walls and dark tinted windows. Known for its elite cardiovascular department, for having some of the best technology in southern Europe, for flying in specialists from Milan, Zurich, and beyond. It wasn’t the kind of place you went for a check-up. It was where people went when they were fighting for their lives, and when they could afford to pay a fortune to try to win that fight.

Alex’s fingers tightened on the paper, the edges bending slightly under his grip.

"Is she sick?" he asked immediately, his voice sharper than he intended, the words cutting through the quiet of the room.

"I don’t know," the chairman replied honestly, calmly, but there was a weight in his eyes. "She didn’t ask the club for help. She requested a loan. Discreetly. My guess is she didn’t want anyone to know. Including you."

Alex exhaled slowly, pressing his lips together, the paper shaking slightly in his hands before he steadied it.

He didn’t know what to say.

His mind was racing, piecing together every moment she had looked tired, every quiet glance, every time she had looked away quickly, every moment she had forced a smile.

His fingers were gripping the edge of the form so tightly now that he could feel the paper cutting lightly into his skin.

"Don’t process it," Alex said.

The chairman looked up, surprised. "Excuse me?"

"Don’t process it," Alex repeated, standing up, his chair scraping softly against the floor.

"Alex," the chairman began, leaning forward, "that’s four hundred grand. You don’t have to-"

"I’ll cover it."

The chairman stared at him, searching his face, trying to read the conviction there, to see if it was a moment of impulse.

Alex’s jaw was tight, his eyes steady, his shoulders squared.

"I’ll cover it," he repeated, quieter this time, but with no less resolve.

The chairman held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded once, slowly, firmly, like a man who knew better than to question someone who had already made up their mind.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t give some lofty statement of approval or club loyalty.

He just nodded.

"Thanks for telling me," Alex muttered, his voice low, almost to himself.

Without another word, he folded the form along the crease and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket, the edges pressing against his chest, a reminder with every step.

Then he turned, his feet moving before he could think, his stride quick, purposeful, the click of the door shutting behind him soft but final.

By the time he reached his car, his phone was already out, the screen lighting up as he typed Santa Lucia Medica Privata into the GPS, the route populating quickly, the calm voice announcing the directions he barely heard.

The system was quiet in his head.

No prompts, no advice, no offers for tactical insight, no numbers about expected goals or heat maps or pressing metrics.

It just let him be.

And he was grateful for that.

He drove with purpose, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp on the road, the traffic lights blinking red, yellow, green, each one a small eternity, the weight in his chest pressing down with every intersection, every slow car ahead of him, every second he felt was being wasted.

His thoughts weren’t clear, not really, but they buzzed at the edges of his mind, emotions mixing with half-formed questions.

What happened, Isabella?

Why didn’t you tell me?

The city passed by outside the window, the buildings blurring in the afternoon light, the sky a soft gold that seemed at odds with the heaviness in his chest.

When Santa Lucia Medica Privata finally came into view as he turned onto Via dei Martiri, it looked the same as it always did, tall, clean, almost serene, its white exterior glowing under the fading sunlight, the glass windows reflecting the orange of the sky.

It didn’t look like a place where people suffered.

But Alex knew better.

It was a fortress of whispered prayers, of quiet miracles, of last hopes.

He pulled the car to a stop, the engine humming for a moment before he shut it off, his hands staying on the wheel, gripping it, his knuckles pale.

He took a breath, in and out, steadying himself.

Then he stepped out.

And walked through the doors.