I Coach Football With A System
Chapter 91: New Year’s Eve at a Hospital (3)

Chapter 91: New Year’s Eve at a Hospital (3)

The corridor outside Isabella’s sister’s room was quiet again. Not sterile and stiff like most hospitals, but quiet in the way that silence could sometimes feel like a blanket. One that covered the awkward, the raw, the uncertain, wrapping itself around two people who weren’t quite sure what to say or do anymore.

Alex and Isabella had pulled away from the hug minutes ago, but neither of them spoke. She sat on the edge of the metal bench, her shoulders slouched, head leaned lightly back against the wall, eyes closed like she was trying to block out everything for just a second. As if breathing itself took effort now.

Alex sat beside her, arms resting on his knees, hands hanging loosely. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. Sometimes it was better to just let the silence be what it was. Sometimes words made things worse.

The truth was, he didn’t know what to say anyway. Every sentence that formed in his mind felt stupid the second it arrived. "It will be okay." How did he know that? "She’s strong." Everyone said that when they didn’t know what else to say. "I’m sorry." He’d already said that.

So he just sat there, close enough that she knew he was there, far enough that she had her own space.

The weight of her story still clung to the air, heavy and unshakable. Her sister, the accident, the surgery, the uncertainty of whether she’d ever walk again. It replayed in his mind like a looping highlight reel, except there was nothing bright or victorious about it. It was like a bad tackle you couldn’t look away from, a slow-motion collision that kept echoing long after it ended.

He’d seen Isabella in all kinds of moods. Sharp, sarcastic, tired after a long press conference, rolling her eyes when reporters asked stupid questions, even a little tipsy after that end-of-season dinner where she’d giggled at everything. But this version of her... this stripped-down, broken-voiced version, he didn’t know how to carry that. All he could do was be there, a silent presence letting her know she wasn’t alone.

A doctor walked past them, shoes squeaking on the floor, glancing at them for half a second before disappearing around the corner. A woman’s voice echoed faintly from another room, and then the corridor was quiet again.

"Did... did they approve the loan?" she asked suddenly, her voice quiet, hesitant, like even saying it aloud felt shameful, like she was confessing something dark.

Alex blinked, the question breaking him out of his thoughts.

Then he slapped his forehead, the sound loud in the quiet hallway.

"Shit."

Isabella opened her eyes and turned her head toward him, one brow rising above tired, red-rimmed eyes.

"What?" she asked, the word drawn out with confusion.

"I told the chairman not to process it," Alex muttered, already reaching into his coat pocket for his phone, his fingers moving faster than his brain could keep up. "I completely forgot to handle it properly afterward."

He was already standing up, scrolling through his contacts with focused urgency, the glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Isabella asked, sitting forward, her voice sharper now, tension creeping into her posture.

"Fixing it," he replied, his tone clipped but calm.

"Alex, no. Don’t-" she began, but he raised a finger, motioning for her to pause as the call connected.

"Hi, this is Alex Walker," he said, his voice shifting into the calm, direct tone he used during transfer negotiations, the one that rarely took no for an answer. "Yes. I’d like to authorize a direct transfer to a private medical facility in Lecce. Santa Lucia Medica. Four hundred thousand pounds. Please convert and process the full sum in euros. It’s urgent. I’ll send you the account details right after this call. Yes, from my personal. Thank you."

He ended the call, exhaled, and lowered the phone, sliding it back into his pocket with a soft thump.

"Done," he said simply, as if he’d just ordered lunch or booked a taxi.

Isabella looked at him like he had just casually announced he’d purchased a small country while standing in a hospital hallway.

"You didn’t have to do that," she said, her voice shaking slightly.

"You said that already," he replied, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I’m serious, Alex," she pressed, her brows knitting together, frustration mixing with disbelief. "That’s... that’s a ridiculous amount of money. It’s more than four years of my salary."

He shrugged, the gesture casual, dismissive, but his eyes were soft. "It’s not even a week of my wages from Madrid."

She stared at him, narrowing her eyes further, her lips parting like she was trying to find the right words, like she wanted to fight him on this but didn’t know how.

"Still," she managed.

"Isabella," he said, stepping in front of her and crouching down so they were eye-level, his eyes locking onto hers, steady and calm, "stop acting like this is some cliché movie scene where the proud woman refuses the billionaire’s help because she doesn’t want to seem weak. I’m not trying to be your knight in shining armor or make this weird."

She snorted despite herself, rolling her eyes, but there was the tiniest upward curve at the edge of her mouth. "You do realize that’s exactly what the billionaire in the cliché movie would say, right?"

Alex laughed, a warm, genuine laugh that filled the quiet hallway for a moment, the tension breaking like a fragile shell. "Fine. Maybe. But I’m not doing this for show. I’m doing this because I care. Because we’re friends, and because you didn’t deserve to go through all of this alone."

Her smile softened then, all the tension in her jaw melting, but her eyes still held that unsure glint, that flicker of hesitation that came from years of learning to handle everything herself.

"I can pay you back, you know. I will. Monthly or something," she said, her voice firm but small, like she needed him to understand how serious she was about this.

Alex shook his head, still smiling, a lopsided grin that made him look younger. "You’re really not letting go of the movie thing, are you?"

"I’m serious," she repeated, crossing her arms.

"And I’m serious too," he said, his grin softening as his eyes met hers again. "You don’t have to pay me back."

"But-"

"No buts," he said gently, cutting her off before she could spiral into another protest. "Look. I’ve wasted more money on broken watches and overpriced steaks than I care to admit. At least this money is going somewhere meaningful. Somewhere that might help someone walk again. Someone you love."

She stared at him for a long moment, her mouth opening and closing once, twice, before she looked away, blinking rapidly as her eyes glinted with tears again, but this time they didn’t fall.

Instead, she nodded. Slowly. Gratefully.

"Thank you," she whispered, the words barely more than breath, but they carried everything she couldn’t say.

"Anytime," Alex replied.

They both sat back down, letting the silence return. But this time, it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t awkward. It was soft, warm, mutual. Earned. Like a quiet breath after a storm.

Alex tilted his head back, letting it rest against the white-painted wall behind them, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling tiles, counting the small cracks and stains, letting his mind slow down for a moment. The hospital corridor felt like a different world, so far removed from football tactics, post-match interviews, WhatsApp chats buzzing with group jokes, the chaos of matchdays. Just two people in a quiet corner of the universe, figuring out life in real-time, breathing together in the same small, calm space.

"You didn’t even ask what the money was for," Isabella murmured after a while, her voice softer now, curious.

"I didn’t have to," Alex said.

"You just assumed?" she asked, turning her head slightly to look at him, her hair falling loose from her bun, framing her tired face.

"I trusted," he said simply.

Her eyes stayed on him for a moment longer, searching, then her lips twitched into a small, tired smile. "You’re really not the cold, hard tactician I thought you were."

"Don’t let the boys hear you say that," Alex replied with a smirk, turning his head to meet her gaze, "I’ve got a reputation to uphold."

Isabella chuckled, the sound quiet but real, and it was like a small light turning on in the dim corridor. "Oh yeah. Alex Walker, the steely-eyed football philosopher. Nothing phases him."

"That’s the one," he agreed, grinning.

A beat passed. Then another. Outside, a nurse passed by, pushing a cart slowly down the corridor, the small squeak of the wheels echoing around them before fading into silence again.

"You should probably head back," Isabella said eventually, her voice gentle.

"I’m fine here," Alex replied.

She looked at him, exhaling softly, "I mean it. You’ve already done enough. You don’t have to babysit me."

"I know," Alex said, his voice calm, steady. "But I want to be here."

She didn’t argue that. Instead, she leaned her head back again, this time resting it just slightly in his direction, her eyes drifting closed.

"You know, before this whole mess, I was planning to spend New Year’s with a bottle of wine and a stupid Christmas movie," she murmured.

Alex raised an eyebrow. "And now?"

"Now I’ll probably spend it in this hospital with fluorescent lights and vending machine coffee," she said, her lips quirking into a half-smile.

He chuckled softly, "I can bring the wine."

"I’d take that, actually."

They sat a little longer after that, letting the hush of the hospital settle around them like a thin blanket. The sharp edges of fear and anxiety dulled with each passing moment, replaced by something quiet, steady, something like hope.

Alex didn’t know how long they’d stay like that.

But for now, he was content to just be there.

No manager duties. No tactics. No pressure.

Just a friend being there for someone who needed it.