The locker room smelled like liniment, leather, sweat, and nerves. It was a cocktail Alex Walker had grown familiar with over the years, one that still lingered in the back of his mind long after the final whistle blew. But today, it felt especially heavy, like a thick fog that clung to every player's skin and refused to let go.
Every player in the room sat in full kit. Socks rolled up, boots already tightened. They were ready, at least in appearance. But the silence told a different story. It wasn't the focused kind. It was the kind that came before a storm, when everyone was still pretending they weren't scared of getting soaked.
Krstovic sat at one end, elbows resting on his thighs, brow furrowed and jaw clenched. Beside him, Banda was absently retying his laces for the third time in five minutes. Gendrey's knee bounced like a piston, his leg moving nonstop, betraying the storm beneath his calm expression.
All of them were trying not to look nervous. Failing miserably.
Alex stood in front of them. No tactics board behind him. No clipboard in hand. Just him, arms folded, lips pressed in a line, and a calm that didn't quite reach his eyes. He looked over them, one by one. From the veterans to the rookies, from the stars to the role players.
They all had the same question hanging behind their eyes.
Can we really do this?
"Look at you lot," Alex began, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the heavy air. "Just take a second and look around. You've worked your asses off. You've fought for every inch. Some of you—" his gaze lingered on Ramadani, then shifted to Kaba, "—have been through some real shit this month. You've played in three different systems, sacrificed your egos, and taken every strange idea I've thrown at you with both grit and humor."
A few smirks flickered across tired faces. Nothing big. Just enough to show they were still in there, buried under the nerves.
"But today," Alex continued, "today is not about systems. It's not about formations or whether we play with a false nine or a double pivot. Today is about identity."
He tapped the Lecce badge on his chest with two fingers.
"This is who we are. Not some cannon fodder, not some tiny club that's just happy to be here. We are Lecce. And we are not walking into the San Siro to get clapped. We are walking in to make a mark. To remind them who the hell we are."
The words started to hit. Heads lifted slightly. Postures shifted. Even the silence in the room seemed to take a step back.
"I know some of you are scared," he said, voice softening just a little. "Good. You should be. Fear means it matters. Fear means you're human. But remember this—" he raised his voice again, pushing forward like a wave crashing into the rocks, "—we are not victims. We are not passengers. We are not here for a sightseeing tour."
He pointed to the door.
"We're here to take points off the best team in the league. And for the next ninety minutes, you are not just eleven footballers. You are a fucking army."
That cracked the silence. A few players let out soft grunts. Gallo slapped his hands together. One of the assistant coaches nodded slowly, arms folded.
Alex stepped forward.
"And I want you to remember this," he said, his voice now sharp with fire, "we are unbeatable. We are unstoppable."
There was a beat of silence before Gallo suddenly shot to his feet and bellowed, "Of course we're unstoppable! No one can move a parked trailer!"
Laughter exploded through the room. Banda nearly fell off the bench. Even Ramadani cracked a rare grin. The tension didn't vanish, but it melted just enough to let something else in.
Belief.
Alex shook his head, trying not to smile too much. He pointed at Gallo. "Oi. If that trailer scores two goals, I'll drive it back to Lecce myself."
More laughter followed. This time louder, more real.
Even Isabella, watching from the corner with a clipboard in hand, chuckled softly.
The storm of nerves had turned into a storm of anticipation. They were still scared, but now it was the kind of fear that sharpened blades, not dulled them.
Alex turned, eyes scanning the group again. Then they landed on one figure sitting quietly at the far end of the bench.
Luca Ferretti.
The kid was dressed, boots laced, hair neatly parted. Calm. A little too calm, perhaps. His face was unreadable, but Alex could see the tension hiding in the way he kept flexing his fingers.
Alex walked over to him, speaking just loud enough for the others to hear, but soft enough to make it feel personal.
"You're not starting," he said, crouching slightly. "But there's a very good chance I'm going to need you."
Luca looked up, his eyes steady. "I'll be ready."
Alex held his gaze for a second longer, then nodded and stood.
There was a knock at the door.
One of the match officials peeked in, dressed in full black kit, headset pressed to his ear. "Coach? Five minutes."
Alex looked at his players.
His army.
"Let's go cause chaos."
—
The San Siro.
Even now, even after everything, it still made Alex feel small.
He hadn't expected that. He thought he'd be too focused, too fired up. But the moment he stepped into the tunnel, it was like he'd walked into a memory. The lighting was dim, but he could still make out the small scuff marks on the walls from years of cleats dragging past. The white paint was faded in spots. The air had that unmistakable blend of grass, paint, and something ancient, something that could only belong to a place like this.
This tunnel had been his home. His battlefield.
His cathedral.
And now, he was back. But he wasn't one of them anymore.
He was the outsider.
The enemy.
He walked a few steps ahead of the team, hands in his coat pockets, back straight. But his palms were sweaty, his pulse louder than it should have been.
He'd been here hundreds of times as a player. Had lifted trophies, broken bones, won battles under the brightest lights in Italy. He'd bled on that pitch. He'd kissed the badge in front of those fans. This place had raised him.
But never like this.
He reached the edge of the tunnel and paused for a heartbeat.
The sound of the crowd was muffled, like distant thunder. But the second his boots touched the edge of the grass, it hit him.
The noise.
The roar.
And then he heard it.
"Oh oh Alex Walker, oh oh Alex Walker!"
It punched the air out of his lungs. Not with violence, but with something deeper. Something heavier.
Love.
They were singing for him.
The Inter ultras. The same fans who had spent years cheering him on, watching him bleed and battle for their club. They were chanting his name.
Not in anger. Not in mockery.
In memory. In respect.
He blinked and looked around. The San Siro stretched around him like a giant's arms. Massive. Eternal. Glorious.
And it was singing his name.
He didn't wave. Didn't clap or pump a fist. He just stood there, letting it hit him all at once.
Behind him, the Lecce players emerged one by one, stepping out into the cauldron of noise and light. Some of them stopped in their tracks, eyes wide. Others looked up at the towering stands in awe. Many of them had never played in a stadium like this before.
But now, this was their battlefield.
Their test.
Their war.
Alex took a breath. Deep and steady.
He could still hear the chant. Still feel the love in it. But he tucked it away. Buried it somewhere safe in his chest. Because this wasn't his return as a hero. This was business.
This was war.
He closed his eyes for a second.
Alright then.
Let's fucking go.
A/N: Don't know why but most authors (including myself) leave a little message at the end of every last free chapter and who am I to break tradition.
I just want to say thank you to everyone who has read this far, those who have commented at any point, any one who has voted and supported this book, it means a lot more than you think. So thank you for reading this far, and see you in the next chapter