Alex folded his hands over the desk and waited. The tension in the air wasn't sharp, but it was thick, like the aftermath of a storm that hadn't quite left.
Krstović and Banda sat down across from him. For a moment, no one spoke. The silence stretched, not awkward, but weighty. Alex studied the two men. They were young, both of them, but not green. They'd seen enough, played enough, endured enough pressure to know the consequences of their actions. Still, their body language now wasn't defiant. If anything, they looked uneasy, even a little vulnerable.
Krstović was the first to speak, his voice low but unwavering.
"I just want to start by saying I'm sorry," he said. "For not showing up to the extra session."
Alex didn't reply right away. He let the words linger, let them breathe in the space between them. Sometimes silence said more than a reprimand.
"I wasn't trying to disrespect you," Krstović continued. "It's just… when you called that session for the forwards, it felt like you were saying we're not good enough. That I'm not good enough."
His voice caught slightly at the end, and Alex saw something in his eyes that wasn't just frustration—it was doubt. The kind that eats away quietly when expectations aren't met.
Next to him, Lameck Banda nodded slowly, then leaned forward.
"I felt the same," he said. "I know I've not had the best few months. I've been struggling. But after one training session, I'm left out of the squad completely. It hurt, coach. Felt like… like you'd already given up on me."
His voice didn't shake, but the pain in it was clear. Banda wasn't angry. He was disappointed, and more than that, he felt forgotten.
Alex let out a slow breath and leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the desk. His gaze shifted between the two of them.
"Look," he began, his voice calm but clear, "I didn't organize that drill to punish anyone. It wasn't about singling people out. It was about focus. Finishing. Sharpening the blade. This is Serie A. We don't get second chances when we're through on goal."
Krstović looked down, his jaw tight.
"And Banda," Alex continued, "I didn't leave you out because I think you're a lost cause. Far from it. I dropped you because you looked off the pace in training. It happens. This isn't a death sentence. It's a wake-up call. I need to see more. I'm building a squad here. One that works, fights, and competes for every inch."
He paused. Let it land. Let it settle.
"I know you both care. That's why you're here. That's why you came to talk."
Banda gave a small nod. Krstović scratched his chin, thoughtful now rather than tense.
"I'll do better," the striker said after a moment. "Just… talk to us. We're not machines."
Alex allowed himself a small smile. Not smug, not patronizing. Just honest.
"You've got my word," he said.
The tension that had weighed down the room began to lift, like mist after rain.
"Alright," Alex said, standing and offering his hand. "That's done. Clean slate. Now go get some recovery in. You'll both have your chances again. But I expect full commitment. That's non-negotiable."
"Yes, coach," Banda said, standing up.
"Understood," Krstović echoed, his voice steadier now.
They shook hands—firm, sincere. Then they turned and left, the door closing softly behind them.
Alex remained standing for a moment, staring at the closed door. The encounter had taken more out of him than he'd realized. Not because it was confrontational, but because it mattered. These were moments that shaped a team—not tactics on a whiteboard, but trust built word by word.
He sat back down and rubbed the back of his neck, staring up at the ceiling. Another fire put out. A small one, perhaps, but left unchecked, it could've grown into something worse. There were still a hundred things to do—injuries to manage, players to scout, forms to approve—but this one? This one was off his back.
His gaze drifted to the side of his desk, where his phone buzzed silently. He picked it up, thumb scrolling through contacts until he landed on Luciana, the club's ever-efficient secretary. He tapped her name and raised the phone to his ear.
She picked up on the third ring. "Buongiorno, Mister Walker," she chirped, her voice bright even through the phone.
"Luciana, hi," Alex said, his voice measured. "Could you help me set up a meeting with the president and the sporting director?"
There was a brief pause on the other end. "Of course. What time were you thinking?"
"Today. If possible. Late afternoon?"
"I'll make some calls."
"Thanks."
The call ended, and Alex leaned back in his chair. He didn't particularly enjoy meetings with suits, but this one felt necessary. Tactics could only take you so far if the foundation beneath them was cracked. If he wanted to reshape Lecce—not just its playing style, but its culture—he'd need the backing from the top. And more importantly, alignment.
Fifteen minutes later, Luciana messaged back. 4:00 p.m. sharp. Saverio Sticchi Damiani and Pantaleo Corvino would be waiting.
Alex stood, stretching out the tightness in his shoulders. He glanced down at his notes, already half-filled with ideas—youth integration pathways, training methodology tweaks, scouting coordination. He wasn't interested in politics. But he couldn't be hands-off either. Not if this was going to work.
The next few hours passed in a blur. Reports piled up. Medical summaries, scouting dossiers, video analysis, even an internal behavioral review from the Primavera coach regarding a promising midfielder with a bad attitude. Alex skimmed through it all, mentally categorizing and prioritizing.
He ate a late lunch at his desk, a ham sandwich that had gone dry in the wrapper. As he chewed mechanically, he watched the U-18s match footage on his tablet. There were moments of promise. A right-back with pace and a good first touch. A lanky central midfielder who read the game like a seasoned pro, even if his technique needed work.
Alex jotted names down. Just ideas for now. But they could become more.
At 3:53 p.m., he pushed his chair back and stood. He pulled on his dark jacket, adjusted the collar, and took one last look in the mirror mounted on the side of his office wall. His Lecce polo was still neat, but the long day was starting to show in the shadows under his eyes.
He grabbed his notes and stepped out into the corridor. The training facility was quieter now. Most of the players had left or were tucked away in the recovery rooms. The staff moved like shadows, quietly getting things done in the background.
The hallway to the boardroom stretched ahead, lit by soft overhead lights that hummed quietly. A couple of framed jerseys lined the walls—echoes of Lecce's past glory and heartbreak. A reminder of what the club had been… and what it could still become.
When Alex reached the door marked with the president's nameplate, he paused. Just for a moment.
He smoothed the front of his shirt. Ran a hand through his hair. Collected his breath.
Then, with a steady exhale, he pushed the door open.