Chapter 6: New Start
The sun over Salento was sharp and golden as Alex Walker stepped off the plane at Brindisi Airport. The light here was different—cleaner, somehow, than Lisbon’s muted greys and winter haze. It cut across the tarmac like a spotlight, catching on the edges of glass and steel, bouncing off the terminal windows with a brilliance that felt almost theatrical. The chill of Lisbon was a memory now, replaced by the crisp Mediterranean breeze that rolled inland from the Adriatic, carrying with it the scent of salt and citrus, of old stone warmed by sunlight.
Alex adjusted his navy blazer as he descended the steps onto the runway. It clung slightly to his shoulders, too warm for the coastal air, but he kept it on. This wasn’t a vacation. It wasn’t a reunion or a nostalgic visit to southern Italy. This was work. A mission. Maybe even redemption, though he’d never admit that out loud. This was the start of something.
Waiting at the terminal’s private arrivals lounge were two men he recognized instantly, though he’d only seen them in articles and the occasional video interview.
Saverio Sticchi Damiani, the president of U.S. Lecce, stood at the front. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored grey suit, his posture straight, his presence quiet but commanding. A lawyer by profession, Damiani had a calm, composed air, with eyes that didn’t dart or waver. They studied, measured. A man used to reading people before they even spoke.
Beside him was Pantaleo Corvino, Lecce’s storied sporting director. Shorter, broader, with thinning white hair and the unmistakable aura of someone who had spent his entire life in football. Corvino was the kind of figure who could spot a future international from a grainy youth tournament clip. Revered across Italy, feared by agents, and known for his blunt assessments and uncanny scouting instincts.
"Mr. Walker," Damiani greeted him in warm, Italian-accented English, extending a hand. "Welcome to Lecce."
Alex took it firmly. "Thank you, President. It’s a pleasure."
Corvino was next. His handshake was firmer, heavier, as though weighing Alex’s resolve through the contact alone.
"We’ve been following you closely," Corvino said, voice low but assured. "Your playing career speaks for itself."
Alex nodded. "Hopefully my coaching will too, this time around." His smile was small, but sincere.
The introductions were brief. No grandstanding. No press. Just a black car waiting at the curb, its engine humming softly as the three men slid inside. The drive from Brindisi to Lecce took just under forty minutes, cutting through landscapes that felt like paintings: olive groves twisted with age, dry-stone walls bordering endless fields, and roads that curled through the countryside like old vines.