I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 89: New Year’s Eve at a Hospital (1)

Chapter 89: New Year’s Eve at a Hospital (1)

The sleek automatic doors of Santa Lucia Medica Privata parted with a quiet hiss as Alex stepped into the hospital lobby. It was pristine. Too pristine. The kind of clean that almost felt aggressive, like it was trying too hard to convince you everything inside was safe, controlled, untouched by the chaos of the world outside.

White-tiled floors gleamed like polished glass under the overhead lights, reflecting the soft glow back up into Alex’s face, making him squint for a moment. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air like humidity in August, so sharp it almost stung the inside of his nose, mixing with the faint, stale tang of air conditioning that had been running for too many hours straight.

The occasional squeak of rubber soles echoed off the sterile white walls, lonely sounds that felt like whispers in a library, reminding him that people came here for things that were too heavy to say out loud. People came here because they were desperate, or dying, or both.

His heart beat faster, not from exertion, not from nerves before a match, but something closer to unease. The kind that crawled up your spine, whispering that something was wrong even if you couldn’t see it yet.

He paused just past the entrance, his eyes scanning the lobby automatically, like he was analyzing a pitch before a game. Reception desk dead ahead, a lone man in a pale-blue uniform tapping away at a keyboard, head down, oblivious. Four corridors branching off in different directions like arteries, each one disappearing into sterile brightness.

This place was massive. It didn’t feel like a hospital. It felt like a five-star hotel trying to hide its true nature, like it was wearing a disguise of calm lighting and soft elevator music to distract you from the fear that lived here.

That’s when it hit him.

He didn’t know what room Isabella was in. He didn’t even know if she was the one admitted. For all he knew, she wasn’t sick at all, and he was about to make a complete fool of himself. All he had was the name "Rossetti," a vague lead, and a hunch that felt heavier than a bag of match balls.

"Idiot," Alex muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He glanced back over his shoulder, catching his reflection in the glass doors behind him. His hair was slightly messy from the drive, eyes sharp but tired, Lecce training jacket zipped up to the collar with the crest gleaming proudly over his heart.

Yeah, real incognito, Walker. Great job.

He turned back around, letting out a slow breath. Then, with a small shake of his head, he strode back out through the doors, the hiss of the automatic sensors barely registering as he walked to his car.

He popped the driver’s door open and reached down into the pocket near the seat, rummaging around until his fingers found what he was looking for, a plain white surgical mask and a pair of dark sunglasses, the cheap kind he kept around ever since the amusement park incident with the fans that had turned into an unplanned signing session.

Fame was more exhausting than he’d ever admit, and it had a way of showing up exactly when he didn’t need it.

He yanked off the Lecce jacket and tossed it into the backseat, leaving him in a simple white polo shirt, a bit wrinkled from the drive but clean enough. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

He slipped the mask over his face, hooked the sunglasses over his ears, and took a second to roll his shoulders back before heading back inside.

Okay. Let’s do this.

The lobby looked the same, but now it felt like everyone was staring, even if they weren’t. He ignored it, focusing on the reception desk.

The man behind the counter didn’t look up, his fingers still dancing across the keyboard, the glow of the screen reflecting in his glasses.

Alex cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. "Hey, uh... I’m looking for someone."

"Name?" the man said flatly, not pausing in his typing.

"Rossetti."

That finally got the guy to look up, his eyebrows pulling together slightly as he scanned Alex’s masked face, probably trying to figure out who the hell he was dealing with.

"Rossetti who?" he asked.

Alex hesitated, heat prickling at the back of his neck.

"I, uh... don’t know the full name. Just... Rossetti."

The man blinked, his expression blank, like he was waiting for Alex to realize how stupid he sounded.

"You don’t have a first name?" he pressed, his voice a bit sharper now.

Alex shifted on his feet. "Isabella," he said quickly. "Isabella Rossetti. I think she’s here."

Now the man’s eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping across his face, a subtle change in posture that Alex didn’t miss. The slight shifting of his weight, the twitch of his hand under the desk, reaching for something, probably the emergency button they kept there for situations like this.

"Look, man," Alex said, pulling the sunglasses down and lowering the mask so his face was visible. "Just do me a favor, alright? I’m not some creep. My name is Alex Walker. I’m just trying to check on someone. Can you please see if anyone named Isabella Rossetti has been admitted here?"

Recognition flashed in the man’s eyes, the name ringing a bell that was probably impossible to ignore if you followed football at all. Still, his hand stayed under the desk.

"Sorry, sir," the man said, his voice more polite but still firm. "We can’t release patient information unless you’re immediate family or listed as an emergency contact. Privacy regulations."

"Come on," Alex said, leaning in slightly, lowering his voice. "She’s a colleague. A good friend. I just want to make sure she’s alright. You don’t have to tell me anything specific. Just... just confirm if she’s okay. That’s all."

The man shook his head, gaze steady. "I can’t."

Alex felt frustration bubble in his chest, threatening to spill out in a way that wouldn’t help. He took a breath, then pulled out his wallet, sliding out a few crisp €50 notes and placing them gently on the counter.

"Is there a way you can help me now?" he asked, his voice calm, even.

The man’s eyes dropped to the money, then lifted back to Alex’s face. His expression didn’t change.

"I’m sorry," he said again, shaking his head. "That’s not going to work. You should wait in the reception area."

Alex stared at him for a long second, jaw tightening, before letting out a quiet exhale. He gathered the notes back, sliding them into his wallet with a sharp flick, then stepped away from the counter.

"Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "Fine. Whatever."

He turned, about to slump into one of the uncomfortable-looking white chairs lined up along the wall, preparing himself to wait, to figure out his next move.

That’s when he heard it.

"Alex?!"

His head snapped up, eyes locking on the source of the voice.

Isabella stood at the entrance of a corridor just past the main lobby, a beige trench coat draped loosely over her shoulders, her hair tied up in a loose bun with a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looked tired—really tired—but her eyes were wide, surprised, the kind of surprise that almost bordered on disbelief.

Her brows lifted, her mouth half-open like she was still trying to form the words.

Alex blinked, frozen for a moment before he managed to speak.

"Isabella."

The man at the counter turned to look at her too, his hand still under the desk, eyes darting between them.

Isabella stepped forward, her movements quick, her coat swaying slightly as she closed the distance.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked, her voice low but sharp, layered with confusion and something else he couldn’t quite read.

Alex opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, trying to find the right words.

"I... was looking for you," he managed.

She stared at him, her expression torn between irritation and disbelief, like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scold him.

"How did you even know I was here?" she demanded.

Alex scratched the back of his neck, a sheepish gesture. "Let’s just say I pestered the chairman until he cracked."

She let out a breath, shaking her head, a small, tired huff of laughter slipping out despite the situation.

The man behind the desk stood abruptly, eyes still on Isabella. "Miss Rossetti, is this man with you?"

Isabella turned to look at him, her eyes softening as she nodded. "Yes. It’s fine. He’s not a threat."

The man sat back down, visibly annoyed now, but he didn’t say anything else.

Alex took a cautious step forward, his eyes on Isabella’s face, trying to read what was behind the exhaustion, the tension in her shoulders.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, voice low.

Isabella looked down, her eyes focusing on the floor for a moment, her lips pressing together like she was trying to find the right answer, the safe answer.

Before she could speak, the hospital intercom buzzed above them, a soft but intrusive sound that made them both glance up.

"Paging Doctor Morelli to Room 314. Doctor Morelli to Room 314."

The announcement echoed in the quiet lobby, stretching the moment between them, making the silence feel heavier.

Finally, Isabella looked up again, meeting his eyes.

"Come on," she said, her voice softer now. "Let’s talk."

Then she turned, walking back into the corridor she had come from, her steps quick, her coat trailing behind her.

Alex followed, his feet moving automatically, his heart beating faster than it did before matches, faster than it did even at the San Siro, because this was something he couldn’t control with tactics or substitutions.

He didn’t know what she was going to say.

He didn’t know what he was about to walk into.

But he followed her anyway.