Chapter 37: The Bar
Alex Walker’s apartment sat quietly on the fifth floor of a modest but well-kept residential complex in Lecce. It wasn’t flashy, not the sort of place that screamed wealth or fame, but it had a view. That view overlooked the winding streets of the city, where cobblestone paths twisted like vines between sloping buildings and lazy lamp posts. At night, Lecce always looked peaceful, like a forgotten postcard left unsent at the bottom of a drawer. The city glowed under a soft orange haze, and the occasional rumble of a motorbike echoed in the distance, slicing through the silence like a reminder that the world hadn’t entirely gone to sleep.
Alex stepped inside his apartment still wearing his matchday suit. His tie was crooked, his collar slightly bent, and his hair looked like he’d run a hand through it more times than he should have. He was tired, though not in the bone-deep, can’t-move kind of way. It was more like the adrenaline had burned itself out, and now, all that was left was the comedown.
The front door clicked shut behind him, and just like that, silence swallowed everything.
Alex stood still for a second, keys dangling in his fingers, wet hair clinging to his forehead. The buzz from the stadium, the yelling in the locker room, even the chaotic press conference, it all felt like a fever dream now that he was back in his apartment. It was like stepping out of a movie and finding himself dropped into a blank page.
He didn’t move for a while. Just stood there in the entryway, listening to nothing.
The lights flicked on automatically as he stepped into the open-plan space. Everything looked exactly the same. White walls, smooth wooden flooring, a glass coffee table with two coasters no one ever used. A wide-screen TV stared back at him like an unused canvas, remote untouched. There were trophies on the shelf above the minimalist fireplace, dusted and gleaming. Fake plants stood in expensive pots like little statues. To his left, a pristine kitchen that had barely seen use since the day he moved in. The espresso machine still had its sticker on it. The oven had never been turned on.
It was modern, clean, and quiet. Too quiet. Too clean.
Alex sighed. Loudly, on purpose. Just to hear something. Just to remind himself that he was still in the world.
He kicked off his shoes and dropped the keys on the counter. The metal clink echoed off the walls like a bell in a cathedral. His coat went on the back of a chair he never sat in. He rubbed at the back of his neck, the muscles still tight and knotted from the match. Lecce had beaten Fiorentina. They’d gotten the three points. It was a massive win. A win that could turn the narrative, shift the pressure, silence the critics.
And yet...
He stood there, staring into space, as if waiting for something. A voice. A laugh. A dog barking. Anything.