I Coach Football With A System

The locker room door slammed shut behind Alex and Krstović as they stepped back inside, the roar of celebration washing over them like a wave. The music was louder than ever, shirts were flying through the air, and someone, probably Banda again, had commandeered a tray of Gatorades and was pretending to serve them like champagne.

"There he is" someone shouted. "The gaffer"

Cheers erupted as Alex was spotted, and within seconds he was being pulled into a group hug, slapped on the back, ruffled on the head like some victorious gladiator returning from the coliseum. Krstović ducked away, laughing, but not before getting a bottle of water cracked over his head.

The celebration was chaos, pure, unfiltered chaos. A group of players had begun chanting the names of the starting eleven like a roll call, each one followed by a chorus of cheers. Helgason stood on a bench, pretending to conduct them like a choir, swinging his arms dramatically with every name, looking like a lunatic maestro in soaked shorts and socks.

Someone had turned on a strobe light app on their phone, casting wild shadows across the walls as players danced and yelled and hugged whoever was closest. There was something raw and innocent in the madness. These weren’t millionaire footballers tonight. They were just boys. Boys who had done something extraordinary.

Even after they made their way to the team hotel, the mood barely dimmed. The players moved in packs, still buzzing, still chanting. By the time they reached the poolside area that had been quietly reserved for them by the club staff, it might as well have been a nightclub. Colored lights shimmered across the water, music thumped from hidden speakers, and tables were stacked with snacks and drinks. Banda had found a whistle somewhere and was blowing it between bites of a sandwich like he was DJing the night himself.

It was joyous. It was unfiltered.

Alex wanted to rein it in. A part of him, the part trained by years of discipline, still felt the need to maintain order. It was still a match night, after all. Still technically part of the job. He wanted to call lights out, insist on ice baths, recovery sessions, and strict bedtime routines. But another part of him, the human part, the ex-player part, knew better. These players, his players, had earned this. Moments like this didn’t come often. A win at the San Siro? After a comeback like that? Who was he to cut it short?

So he drifted to the side, away from the music and the noise, and sat by the edge of the pool, legs dipped in the water. He rolled up the cuffs of his tracksuit and let the chill lap at his shins. The night air was cool but not cold, just enough to bring clarity to his overheated mind.

There were fans around, staying in the same hotel. A few recognized him, gave him respectful nods or whispered among themselves. But no one approached. Maybe it was the look on his face, the quiet stillness he carried. He didn’t smile. He didn’t invite company. He just sat.

And thought.