Chapter 42: The Worst Kind of Headache
The morning sun crept lazily over the Lecce training ground, casting long shadows across the pitch. The air was sharp, the kind of brisk that wakes up even the sleepiest defender, and the scent of freshly cut grass clung to the soles of everyone’s boots. A new day, another step closer to San Siro.
Alex Walker arrived on the field just as the players were finishing their light jog. Clipboard in hand, sunglasses hiding the dark circles under his eyes, he looked every bit the exhausted genius, or deranged tactician, depending on who you asked.
"Morning, lads," he said, voice dry as ever.
"Morning, boss," a few called back in unison, though not without smirks and side-eyes.
"I assume we’re doing another round of TERRORBALL today?" Ylber Ramadani called out, stretching his hamstrings with exaggerated effort. "What formation are we butchering this time, Coach? 10-0-0?"
The squad chuckled, a few already snorting.
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Careful, Ramadani. You’re not too old to be running laps for jokes."
"That’s alright," said Berisha, stepping forward with a deadpan. "If we’re going to park the bus again, I need to go home and get my driver’s license renewed."
Another round of laughter, louder this time. Even the physios were grinning.
"Oh come on, leave the man alone," Gallo jumped in, nudging Berisha with his elbow. "He’s a tactical innovator. Like Pep Guardiola, if Pep hated fun."
"Well pep does hate fun, I think he’s more like a Alex Hitler," Dorgu added, arms folded, wearing a dramatic scowl. "The dictator of defensive transitions. The football terrorist."