Chapter 3: Job Hunting
A full week passed.
Seven long, dragging days.
Alex had locked himself indoors like a man possessed. The initial shock of waking up in his younger body, in a different timeline, had given way to a strange kind of focus. With the weight of his unique knowledge pressing down on him, he felt an urgency that bordered on obsession. The world outside his apartment might as well have been a different planet; he had no time for it. Time, after all, was both his enemy and his ally.
His flat was nothing short of luxurious. Nestled in an upscale Milan neighborhood, it had floor-to-ceiling windows that offered panoramic views of the city skyline. Sunlight poured into the open-concept living space, illuminating the marble countertops, polished hardwood floors, and designer furniture. A leather sectional sprawled across the living room, facing a state-of-the-art entertainment system. Abstract art adorned the walls. A shelf in the corner displayed a mix of trophies, signed memorabilia, and hardcover books on football tactics and leadership.
The flat was the kind of place that spoke not of extravagance, but of a man who had once lived well—and still knew how to carry himself with a quiet, refined pride. Despite the beauty around him, Alex barely noticed any of it that week. His mind was elsewhere.
He read match reports until his eyes burned. Reviewed starting elevens from memory. Watched highlights and full matches on mute, letting body language tell its own story. Most of all, he scouted.
He knew football history like gospel—at least, the history that had been until he intervened. He recalled which clubs faltered around this time in late 2024. Which managers were skating on thin ice. Which boards were trigger-happy. Which squads were on the brink of collapse.
Two names kept floating to the top.
Lecce.
A small club fighting for survival in Italy’s Serie A. As of now, they were sitting 16th in the table—perilously close to the relegation zone. Their squad was thin, more heart than muscle. Their budget was laughably low compared to the giants in the league. But there was something about them. A blank canvas. The kind of club where miracles were expected only once every twenty years—and no one would blame you for falling short.
Sporting CP.