Chapter 55: The Irony
Alex woke in the pale morning light, head throbbing like a storm echoing through his skull. The room smelled faintly of stale beer and spent sorrow, like emotions that had fermented overnight into something heavier. He groaned, untangling himself from the covers that clung to his legs like vines. It took more effort than it should have to pull himself upright. His back ached, his eyes burned, and his mouth felt like cardboard soaked in regret.
It had only been one drink, or at least that was the excuse he kept rehearsing in his mind. But deep down, he knew better. It wasn’t the alcohol weighing him down, it was the weight of everything else. The pressure. The expectations. The feeling that no matter what he did, he was always dancing on a wire above disaster. The memory of last night’s emotions pressed on him harder than any hangover could.
Outside, Lecce was already deep into December’s chill. The city had begun to dress itself for Christmas. Wreaths hung on doorframes, lights draped across balconies and lamp posts, and faint carols drifted from half-open café doors. Tinsel glittered in shop windows like stars fallen from the sky. People smiled more easily, and the air carried a sense of anticipation, of comfort. But Alex felt none of it. Not even a flicker.
He dressed slowly, deliberately. A dark shirt, clean but wrinkled from where it had sat at the bottom of his wardrobe. Trousers that fit just right. Then, over it all, he threw on a thick knit sweater coat. Black, flecked with threads of gold that caught the light faintly when he moved. It was heavy and warm, the kind of garment that made him feel grounded, like he could disappear inside it. He tugged it tightly around his shoulders, then around his throat, as if he could bundle himself up from the inside out.
His breath misted in front of him as he stepped out. The cold bit at his nose and fingertips, but it also helped clear the fog in his head. He moved through Lecce’s streets without urgency, letting the rhythm of his footsteps pull him forward. Holiday lights blinked lazily overhead, but tonight had left something raw inside him. Some ache that no warmth could reach.
He tried to shove it aside. He had work to do, plans to finalize. Today wasn’t just any day. It was important. Tactically, emotionally. After the wild draw with Inter, he’d told Luca that they’d be back. That it wasn’t the end, that it was only the beginning. And now, by some twist of fate or poetic irony, they were returning to San Siro. But this time, it wouldn’t be Inter waiting for them. It would be AC Milan, and this time it was the Coppa Italia round of sixteen tie.
It felt like a story someone else was writing. One where the lines were already inked in, and Alex was just chasing after them with a pen of his own, trying not to fall behind.
By 8:30 a.m., he arrived at the training facility. Centro Sportivo di Torre Rinalda was quiet when he pulled in, the kind of calm that felt like the deep breath before a storm. Holiday decorations had made their way inside too, small things, garlands above doorways, paper snowflakes taped to the windows. But inside, the scent was the same as always: turf, sweat, and ambition.
He went straight to his office, just off the main lounge. It was small but private, his own little bubble where he could think clearly. He shrugged off the coat and let it fall onto the back of his chair before dropping into the seat like a stone into water.
On the monitors, footage from the Inter match played on loop. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands steepled together in thought. The way Lecce had come alive once they shed the low block, how they had surged forward with purpose. That spell of play had stuck with him. It haunted him, in a good way. It reminded him that these players could do more than just hang on, they could dictate, dominate, even dream.
He rewound the second goal again. The way Rebić rose to meet the ball, the flick, Luca’s calm composure, the movement from Krstović. The build-up had been electric. Gallo’s drive down the flank, the shift inward, the ball slicing lines apart. It was beautiful. And it told Alex something important.