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."
Alex narrowed his eyes but didn't say anything. Instead, he gave them all a long, silent stare. A beat passed. Then another.
And then he smirked. "You're all awfully brave for a group that's one bad training session away from double conditioning drills."
And then came the switch up.
"No disrespect, gaffer," laughed Gallo.
"Much love, Coach," Berisha added quickly, hands raised in mock surrender.
Alex shook his head, grinning despite himself. This was good. Banter meant chemistry. Chemistry meant belief. And belief meant they had a shot, even against giants like Inter.
"Alright," he said, clapping his hands. "Let's get into it."
He pointed toward the cones already laid out on the pitch. "Same drill as yesterday. 4-4-2 flat against 3-5-2. I want sharp presses, clean transitions, and none of that jogging around like we're at a Sunday kickabout."
The players split into groups, the starters for the upcoming Inter match forming the 4‑4‑2 unit. Baschirotto and Pongračić were already barking orders in the back line. Dorgu and Gallo took the wide midfielder roles, fullbacks repurposed into wingers, and the midfield pivot of Ramadani and Berisha were deep in conversation about spacing. Up top, Krstović and Rebić stood tall, stretching out their hamstrings like warriors preparing for battle.
On the other side, the 3‑5‑2 group was less structured, but no less eager. Luca Ferretti, quiet as always, took a holding role in midfield, flanked by seasoned squad players and a few eager youngsters looking to make their mark.
Alex paced the sideline, watching intently as the two groups shaped up. The first drills began: wave after wave of positioning work, high-intensity transitions, and recovery phases. His voice rang out again and again, correcting spacing, adjusting runs, snapping at lazy tracking.
He was especially watching the midfield. The 4‑4‑2 required two tactically sound players in the middle: one a destroyer, the other a distributor. Ramadani was locked in, smart, disciplined, vocal. But the other pivot… that role needed passing range, vision, composure under pressure.
He glanced toward Luca.
In his head, the system's message from the previous night still rang:
It was a blueprint for anti-football, and Alex loved it. But it also demanded near-perfect execution.
And that was the problem.
He didn't know if Luca was ready.
As the 3‑5‑2 group pushed forward on a simulated counter, Luca suddenly sprang to life. A defender slid the ball into his feet in the middle third, and he didn't hesitate. One touch to settle, another to shift his weight, and then he pinged it.
A laser.
The pass tore through the formation. It sliced through the first line, between Berisha and Ramadani, skipped past the center backs, and curled perfectly into the path of the advancing striker. Three lines broken. Six players bypassed. One pass.
The pitch froze.
No one reacted at first. They didn't know how.
The striker took the ball and paused mid-run, like he was trying to understand what had just happened.
"What the-" Gallo muttered.
Berisha turned slowly to Luca, eyes wide. "How the hell did you even see that?"
Luca just shrugged.
Ramadani stared at him, dumbfounded, then broke into laughter. "Put me on, lil bro!" he shouted, grinning like a madman. "I want to start pinging passes like that!"
The team exploded in laughter.
"Luca Ferretti, you magician!" someone else shouted.
"Someone check his passport, he's not sixteen!"
Even the assistant coaches were shaking their heads.
Luca was all smiles as everyone reacted to his pass. Over the past month, he had become much more comfortable with the team. He even started to reply some of the remarks made.
Alex stood still. Silent. That pass hadn't just been good. It had been decisive. It was the kind of play that changed games. The kind of play that exposed defensive systems like a blade through soft fabric.
He swallowed hard. Damn it.
He was happy. Of course he was happy. This was the kind of growth he'd dreamed of. Luca was developing faster than expected, integrating himself naturally into high-intensity play, showing the kind of vision most midfielders only dreamt about.
But it also gave Alex the worst kind of headache a manager could have.
Selection.
Do I start him?
He looked over at the 4‑4‑2 side, where Berisha and Ramadani were still laughing, though clearly shaken by what they'd just witnessed. Experience? Sure. But could they pull off something like that? Not often. Not under pressure.
But Luca… could he handle the weight? The San Siro was no place for second chances. It was a place of gladiators. And Luca was sixteen.
Alex stared down at his clipboard, then up again at the grinning young midfielder now being mobbed by his teammates. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Great," he muttered. "Now I've got an actual problem."
He blew the final whistle. "That's it for the day. Ice baths, cooldowns, then go home. Video session at five. Dorgu, no skipping again."
"I was sick last time!" Dorgu shouted defensively.
"You were playing FIFA in the physio room," Alex replied.
"Exactly. I was mentally ill," Dorgu said, nodding solemnly.
More laughter.
As the players jogged off the pitch, a few clapped Luca on the back, still talking about the pass. Alex stayed behind, standing at midfield. His headache throbbed. Not from noise or fatigue. But from the kind of pressure that only comes when you have too many options, and no margin for error.
Do I trust the kid? Or do I play it safe?
And beneath all that, something else, something deeper.
What kind of team are we becoming?
He didn't have the answer yet. But Inter Milan wouldn't wait.
And neither would the clock.