Chapter 58: If You’re Good Enough, You’re Old Enough
Alex sat behind the wooden podium in the softly lit press room of the Milan hotel where all away teams checked in. The beige walls were dull, the kind that absorbed sound instead of bouncing it. Polished floors reflected soft yellow light, and the air was filled with the familiar mix of overused cologne, faint coffee, and freshly printed media sheets. Rows of neatly dressed journalists, laptops on their knees, filled the room with a low, electric murmur.
He sat still, spine straight, but his shoulders sagged just slightly. The fatigue clung to him, not heavy enough to break him, but insistent enough to be felt. Last night’s flight still tugged at his limbs like ghost weights, a dull ache that reminded him he hadn’t rested properly. Two days ago, his team had played one of their most emotionally exhausting matches of the season, and now, they were staring down AC Milan, another giant standing at the gates.
He inhaled slowly. Not sharp or dramatic, just enough to steady himself. This wasn’t his first press conference, but tonight felt different. The tension wasn’t hostile, just thicker than usual. He could sense it in the way the reporters stared at him, like spectators watching a man walk a tightrope.
In the far corner of the room, Isabella stood beside a black pillar, hands folded neatly, tablet in one hand, subtle nod at the ready. Her presence grounded him. She was the steady force behind the scenes, always a step ahead.
The murmur died down, voices fading like a radio being turned off.
"Good evening, coach," said a tall man in a gray suit, stepping forward slightly. A small metal badge clipped to his lapel read Calcio Notte. "I’m Marco Rossi. Lecce is about to face AC Milan, a historic club with its own giants and legacy. Do you feel that the rivalry, especially after the Inter match, plays into your tactical or mental preparation?"
Alex leaned forward slightly, his fingers lightly gripping the edges of the podium. The wood was cold under his hands. He looked past the rows of cameras, past the blinking lights, straight into one lens. That one. The center lens. He focused his thoughts.
This is your moment, he told himself.
"With Inter, our focus was clear, win. For Milan, it’s the same. We’re not chasing rivalries or headlines. We’re chasing results," he said, his voice low but steady, words dropped like stones into calm water. "Being at Lecce doesn’t change that. Qualifying for the quarter-finals, that’s our true objective. Everything else is secondary."
The room didn’t move, but the shift in energy was noticeable. A wave of typing followed, rapid keystrokes and scribbling pens. The kind of sound that meant his words would be on screens in five minutes, on paper by dawn.
But the calm didn’t last.