The locker room was chaos, the good kind of chaos that only came after something unforgettable.
Laughter bounced around like a ball hitting every wall, players shouted over each other, and the sharp hiss of water bottles being popped open filled the air. Someone had taken their shirt off and was swinging it like a lasso, and somebody else was trying to turn one of the benches into a drum. It was messy and loud and beautiful. The scent of sweat mixed with the slight tinge of grass and mud, and somehow, it all felt perfect.
Lecce had done it. A three-one win over Monza. Not just a win, but a statement. A roar. A reminder to anyone watching that this team was alive and fighting.
Alex Walker stepped into the dressing room slowly. He didn't say anything at first. Just let it all hit him, let the sound and the color of the moment settle deep into his bones. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching his players like a teacher watching his students celebrate graduation. There was pride in his eyes, the kind you couldn't fake.
Then he clapped. Once. Twice. Then a third time, louder than the others.
"OI! SHUT UP FOR A SECOND!" Alex's voice cracked through the noise like a whip.
The reaction was immediate. The room simmered down, though no one stopped smiling. Their bodies might've slowed, but their spirits were still flying.
Alex stepped forward, his eyes scanning the room. He saw Krstovic sitting on the bench, grinning like he'd just won the lottery. And in a way, maybe he had. Two goals in a single match could change a striker's season. Ramadani and Berisha were leaning against the wall, their jerseys half peeled off, chests heaving, but their eyes shining. And then there was Patrick Dorgu, shirtless and glowing, cheeks red, legs still trembling a little. His assist and his goal were written all over his face.
Alex walked slowly, pacing like a general who'd just returned from war.
"That," he began, his voice growing louder with each word, "is what it fucking feels like to WIN."
That one word echoed. Win. It was more than just a result. It was everything.
A few claps followed. Then someone let out a cheer. Probably Baschirotto. The sound snowballed. Soon the whole room was clapping and hooting again, but this time it was different. There was something deeper in it. Something real.
Alex raised his voice over the noise.
"I want all of you to remember this. Not just today, not just tonight. Remember the sound, the crowd, the chants, the blood pumping through your veins. Remember how we played like we owned that pitch. This," he pointed at his chest, then slowly gestured to each of them, "this is what we fight for. Not survival. Not just making it through. We fight for this feeling. This joy. Every match. Every single time we step on the pitch."
A brief silence followed, a respectful one. His words had landed.
Then a voice piped up from the back. "A coach with real balls, finally!"
Everyone laughed. Even Alex chuckled. "Shut it, Marco. You were about to pass out in the sixtieth minute."
The laughter doubled. Marco Capuano raised both hands like he'd been caught stealing.
Then Alex turned to Dorgu, who was now trying to hide a smug grin as he sipped from his water bottle.
"And you," Alex pointed with mock accusation, "bloody hell, Patrick. You think you're Neymar now, don't you?"
Dorgu put the bottle down and shrugged with a grin. "Just trying to channel my inner Alex Walker, boss."
The room exploded. Alex let out a genuine laugh, a deep one from the chest.
"You couldn't walk a dog with those legs, let alone dribble through three men," Alex teased, shaking his head, "but fuck me, did you deliver today."
More clapping. A few players walked over to pat Dorgu on the back. The young winger looked overwhelmed, but happy. That goal had meant something. Not just to the fans. Not just to the scoreboard. To him.
The locker room buzzed on. Backslaps, hugs, bad jokes, and shirt tossing. Eventually, Alex let them have the room. They had earned the right to be loud. To celebrate. They had played like warriors.
He stepped out into the hallway, breathing in the silence beyond the noise. It felt like stepping out of a storm. A warm, wonderful storm.
His apartment was dark when he got home.
The keys landed on the counter with a soft clink, and he dropped onto the couch like a man who had just run a marathon. And in a way, he had.
He exhaled loudly, staring at the ceiling as he leaned back. His body was heavy, his muscles aching in ways he hadn't noticed at the stadium. But it was the kind of tired that came with satisfaction. Still, beneath the pride and joy of the victory, something else crept in.
That old emptiness.
The same one that always returned when the lights were off and the cheers had faded. It didn't matter how many goals they scored or how loud the crowd had been. At night, when the world was still, it always found a way back.
He stared at the ceiling like it might offer answers.
Why was this feeling always waiting?
He shut his eyes tight. For a moment, just a brief moment, he thought about getting up. About walking to the kitchen. There was a bottle in the cupboard. Something strong, something that would make the silence go away.
But he didn't move.
Not tonight.
"This isn't the time to be empty," he whispered to himself. "You've got a job to do."
His phone buzzed.
He almost ignored it, but then curiosity won out. He picked it up off the table lazily and glanced at the screen.
[Message from Pantaleo Corvino]
Scout network finalized. Operations have officially begun. We'll start getting reports in the next few weeks. Great work, mister coach.
Alex raised his eyebrows. That had moved quicker than he expected. He hadn't thought Corvino would pull the trigger so soon, but the man clearly didn't waste time.
"One less thing to worry about," Alex muttered with a small, tired smile.
He thumbed back a quick thumbs-up emoji and dropped the phone back onto the table. His eyes started to close again.
And then.
[Ding! Host has been given a mission.]
His eyes flew open. That wasn't his phone. That was something else.
"…You again," he said softly.
The System interface blinked into existence like a ghost in his living room. It was cool and blue, floating just above his vision like a dream or a hallucination. He was starting to get used to this part of his life, weird as it still felt.
[New Mission: Lay the Foundations]
[Objective:]
[Integrate at least two new academy players into the first-team matchday squad within the next three Serie A matches.]
[Analyze and adjust at least one training regimen to maximize physical sharpness.]
[Reward:]
[Tactical Insight Upgrade (Vision +1)]
[Unlock: Individual Player Growth Tracker]
[Failure Penalty:]
[Decreased Team Morale (-5)]
[Reduced Tactical Efficiency (-1)]
Alex stared at the words. His finger hovered in the air, instinctively reaching for something that wasn't there. He rubbed his temples, groaning quietly.
"You really don't know how to take a break, do you?" he muttered.
But deep down, he wasn't angry.
This was the job. The real job. It never stopped. You could win, you could celebrate, but the next challenge was always waiting. There was always a new problem to solve. A new objective to meet. A new fire to put out or light up, depending on the mood.
Alex sat forward on the couch now, elbows on his knees. He stared at the glowing text, then nodded slowly.
"Alright then. If this is the game we're playing, bring it on."
He might've been tired. Hell, he was exhausted. And yes, the room was quiet, too quiet. But that didn't matter right now.
Because he had done his job today.
And tomorrow?
He'd do it again.
The System blinked out with a soft chime, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.
Alex leaned back once more, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
This time, the silence didn't feel so heavy.
This time, he didn't feel so empty.
He felt ready.
A/N: Bonus chapter if we make it to 50 Power Stones this week, or three reviews. Two if we smash both targets