Chapter 59: The Paradox
The hotel corridors were still dark when Alex Walker slipped into his tracksuit, the fabric whispering against his skin as he moved with quiet purpose. He walked slowly at first, not because he was tired, but because the silence gave him something he rarely had these days, peace. The weight of tonight’s quarter-final match at San Siro pressed against his shoulders like an invisible hand, but in this early hour, before the world stirred, there was clarity. He needed it. No chaos, no drama, just the rhythmic sound of his sneakers on carpet and the steady beat of his heart.
He had promised himself something that morning. No more surprises this week. No changes to the plan, no last-minute gambles. He wanted calm. He wanted routine. He wanted control.
But before anything else, he needed to wake his players.
The players’ lounge was dimly lit when he arrived, just seconds before the lights hummed to life overhead. He stood by the door, framed by the faint glow of the hallway behind him, and watched as the team began to appear one by one, yawning, stretching, rubbing sleep from their eyes like schoolboys dragging themselves into class after a sleepless night.
"Good morning," Alex called out, his voice slicing through the drowsy fog that hung over the room. It wasn’t harsh, but it held an edge of authority, the kind that made your spine straighten even when your brain hadn’t fully caught up. "Stretch time. Let’s loosen up."
Banda was the first to react. He dropped dramatically to the carpeted floor with a loud groan, arms flailing like a man wounded. "Coach, it’s too early. I’ve seen mornings that started better with my face in a pillow and a headache from the night before."
From the corner, Gallo pulled down his headphones and smirked, amusement twinkling in his still-sleepy eyes. "Yeah, and even then, Banda probably still scored a brace."
Laughter rippled across the lounge, the kind of easy, genuine sound that came from shared exhaustion and trust. Krstović rolled his neck, then dropped to the ground beside Banda, mimicking his exaggerated stretch. "You lot talk too much," he grumbled playfully. "Just move."
Alex watched it unfold, stopwatch in hand. "Two minutes," he reminded them. "Dynamic stretches only. Light voices, light movement. Focus."
He didn’t tell them that he himself had woken before the sun, heart racing from a dream he couldn’t remember, a knot sitting square in his stomach. He didn’t share how many times he had stared at the ceiling, replaying match scenarios, mentally rotating his squad through passing patterns. He didn’t say a word. He just watched. Let them be young. Let them laugh. Let them feel the moment without knowing its weight.
And then there was Luca Ferretti.