The sun filtered in softly through the blinds of the training center's media room, casting slanted shadows on the carpeted floor. The light was golden, almost lazy, as if even the sun itself had no desire to rush the day forward. It was Friday, but something about it didn't feel like the usual end-of-week relief. The air was still. Too still.
Alex Walker sat in his office with a slight lean in his chair, his elbows resting on the armrests, fingers steepled just beneath his chin, and his eyes flicking toward the digital clock on the wall. 10:22 a.m. The press conference was scheduled for eleven sharp. He wasn't late. Not yet. But the silence in the room only made his own heartbeat sound louder in his ears.
He told himself he wasn't nervous. And maybe he really wasn't. Not exactly. But there was definitely something gnawing at him, something crawling around beneath the surface of his calm expression. It wasn't fear. It wasn't dread. Just a weight he couldn't name, a fog he couldn't quite clear.
Then came a knock at the door. It wasn't hesitant, but it wasn't aggressive either. Just one of those knocks that made it clear the person on the other side already had a hand on the handle.
Before Alex could even answer, the door swung open.
Isabella stepped inside, her expression somewhere between amused and concerned. Her arms were folded loosely over her chest and she held a steaming cup of coffee in one hand.
"You look like you're about to face a firing squad," she said, her voice teasing but gentle.
Alex didn't even flinch. He tilted his head to one side slightly, a wry smirk curling on his lips. "Same thing, isn't it?"
She rolled her eyes and crossed the room to hand him the coffee. "They're not going to eat you alive, you know."
He took the cup, gave it a quick sip, and grimaced a little. Lukewarm. Probably one of those vending machine ones that had been sitting there all morning. Still, it was better than nothing. "Depends on how much they ask about Inter," he muttered.
"You mean the club you bled for, won titles with, captained through some of their biggest nights?" she asked casually, leaning against the edge of his desk. "Yeah, I'm sure they'll have one or two questions."
Alex chuckled under his breath, the sound low and tired. "I'm not worried about answering them," he said quietly. "It's just… strange, that's all."
She looked at him for a long second, searching his face as if trying to read something behind his words. Then she nodded once, slowly. "You ready?"
He drained the rest of the coffee, winced slightly, and set the cup aside. "Ready as I'll ever be."
They walked out of the office together, the quiet hallway stretching before them like a tunnel. Isabella walked a little ahead of him, her shoes tapping gently against the tiled floor. Just before they reached the door to the press room, she glanced back at him over her shoulder.
"By the way," she said, her voice light but sincere, "no matter what happens in there, you've done more with this team in a month than anyone expected. You've earned this seat."
Alex smiled faintly. The kind of smile that was both thankful and worn down. "Thanks."
The press room was already packed when they entered. Reporters filled every row, camera crews hovered like birds of prey, and the familiar scent of microphones and fresh ink hung in the air. As soon as Alex stepped into view, all eyes turned toward him.
He took his place at the front beside Lecce's media officer, adjusted the mic, and cleared his throat. The lights felt hotter than usual. Or maybe that was just him.
A young journalist from Gazzetta dello Sport was the first to raise his hand, his notepad already open.
"Alex," he began, his voice clear and eager, "you spent nearly your entire playing career at Inter Milan. Tomorrow, you return to the San Siro, but this time in Lecce colors. Is that… difficult?"
Alex offered a relaxed smile, though he felt the weight of the question.
"No, it's not difficult," he said, voice steady. "It's like… like a kid coming back home after a long school trip. The San Siro raised me. I spent years on that pitch with teammates I still consider brothers. I'm excited to go back. To see the staff, the players, the fans. And I'm excited to test myself and my team against the best in the league."
The sound of cameras clicking echoed around the room.
Another journalist, this one older and wearing a navy blue blazer, jumped in quickly. "Do you think the Inter fans will welcome you? Or will they see you as the enemy now?"
Alex let out a soft laugh.
"Look, I'm not naïve. I'm wearing different colors now. Some people might boo. That's part of the game. But I've always played with my heart, and I think Inter fans know that. I hope they remember me fondly. Just… maybe not during the ninety minutes."
A few quiet chuckles rippled through the room. Even the media officer cracked a tiny smile.
Another hand went up. This time from a veteran reporter from Corriere della Sera.
"Tactically, you've surprised many this season. Lecce's switch to a more… let's say, unorthodox approach has drawn criticism. Some are calling it anti-football. What's your response to that?"
Alex leaned forward slightly, a glint of fire in his eyes.
"If football is about results, then we're playing it just fine. Call it what you like, Haram Ball, ultra-defensive, a parking garage instead of a bus, I don't care. The job is to survive, adapt, and give these players a system that lets them compete. I'm not ashamed of that."
A younger reporter near the back raised his hand next, his voice a little nervous.
"Will you be fielding your strongest eleven against Inter, or are you rotating?"
Alex gave a diplomatic smile.
"Inter is the strongest team in the league. If you want to compete with them, you bring your best. So yes, we'll field a strong lineup. Whether that's our strongest, that depends on training and what I've seen from the lads this week."
Another hand, this one more pointed.
"Luca Ferretti. You've brought him in from the youth squad and he's made waves already. Any chance we see him tomorrow?"
Alex paused for a moment. The entire room leaned forward ever so slightly.
"He's a fantastic talent. Still very young, still learning. But I believe in rewarding performances. If you're good enough, you're old enough. Let's just say… I haven't ruled anything out."
There were murmurs now. More clicks from the cameras. Reporters scribbling things down quickly. Off to the side, Isabella stood with her arms folded, her eyes focused on Alex. She looked proud. Calm.
A reporter from Sky Italia spoke next.
"Alex, Inter Milan are unbeaten this season. Top of the table. If Lecce manage a result, it would be seen as a massive upset. Do you think your team is ready for that level?"
Alex looked around the room. He let the silence hang for a few seconds before answering.
"That's exactly why I want this match," he said, his tone firm. "I want to see where we are. I want the players to feel what it's like to face giants. It's only when you're pushed to your limits that you know what you're made of. Are we favorites? No. But we don't walk onto the pitch already beaten. We fight. We defend. We bite. And if that's not enough, we go back, work harder, and do it again."
He leaned back in his seat, his expression calm but full of conviction.
"That's Lecce."
For a moment, there was only the quiet hum of the recording devices.
Then came a more personal question from near the front.
"Do you ever wish you were playing instead of managing?"
Alex blinked. Then his smile returned, softer now, almost nostalgic.
"Every day," he said simply. "But I've had my time. Now it's theirs."
The press officer checked his watch, then tapped Alex on the arm discreetly.
"One more question," he murmured.
An older journalist with silver strands in her hair raised her hand. Her voice was quiet but carried weight.
"Alex," she asked, "do you think you'll ever manage Inter Milan one day?"
The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Alex didn't flinch.
"I don't know what the future holds," he said. "I'm focused on Lecce. On helping this group grow. If there's ever a day Inter calls and I'm ready, I'll think about it. But right now? My heart's here."
Cameras clicked in rapid bursts. Isabella, the press officer stood up.
"That'll be all for today. Thank you."
Alex got to his feet, nodded politely to the room, and stepped down from the podium. Behind him, the buzz of discussion resumed almost instantly. Questions flew. Opinions formed. But he was already walking out.
Isabella met him at the door.
"You did good," she said, her voice warm.
"Did I?" he asked, loosening his collar a little.
"Yeah," she replied, smiling faintly. "You sounded like a real manager."
He glanced sideways at her.
"Still think they're going to eat me alive?"
"No," she said with a quiet confidence. "I think you're ready."