Chapter 36: We Didn’t Come Here To Play Football
Alex didn’t even get the chance to change out of his matchday suit. Sweat still clung to the collar of his white shirt, and his tie hung slightly loose around his neck. Before he could even unlace one shoe, the locker room door swung open with a sharp creak, and in marched Isabella, Lecce’s ever-relentless press officer. She didn’t wait for him to notice her.
"Up. Now," she said, tugging lightly at his sleeve with a knowing smirk.
The cheers and laughter of his players, still riding the high of their hard-fought win, echoed behind him like a fading chorus. It was a sound that deserved to be savored. But instead of basking in it for just a few more minutes, Alex was being marched down the concrete hallway of the stadium like some kind of post-match sacrifice.
"Isabella, can we not just..." He trailed off, hoping for a miracle.
"No chance," she replied without even slowing her pace. "They’re already in there, and you’re the hero of the hour. Let’s not keep them waiting."
Alex groaned under his breath. "Alright. Let’s get this over with."
The fluorescent lights above them hummed like a swarm of invisible bees, and the buzz of adrenaline from the match began to fade. He felt the stiffness in his legs and the dull throb behind his eyes. It was all catching up to him now. Victory had a way of covering up fatigue, but only until the interviews started.
As the door to the press room swung open, a wave of sound and heat rushed out. The sharp clicks of camera shutters were relentless, like a swarm of insects descending. The voices of reporters layered over each other in low murmurs, like a sea of barely restrained questions waiting to break free. Blinding white lights hovered overhead, focused on the small platform where he was expected to sit and bare his soul to strangers.
Alex stepped onto the stage, straightening his back and squinting through the haze. He sat down behind the microphone, adjusting the angle as he scanned the room. He wasn’t exactly nervous. Just... tired. Tired in a way that went beyond muscle soreness or mental fatigue. It was the kind of tired that came from always having something to prove.
Then he spotted a familiar face.
Luca Benedetti stood first, notebook in hand and a faint smile on his lips.