Author's Note: Kind of a long chapter ahead. It took a unholy amount of self control to stop me from splitting it into two.
Alex adjusted the collar of his navy-blue shirt and took a breath deep enough to steady a dozen nerves. The hallway outside the President's office was quiet, too quiet, the kind of stillness that wrapped around your chest and squeezed, just a little. He could hear his own footsteps echo faintly as he moved forward.
When he reached the door, he paused, not to hesitate, but to collect himself. Moments like this, they mattered. Not because they were dramatic or glamorous, but because they were defining. Meetings with suits weren't his favorite part of the job, but if he wanted Lecce to evolve into more than a yo-yo club, this was where it had to start.
Inside, the office was exactly what he expected, and exactly what it needed to be. The walls were lined with relics of Lecce's past: framed jerseys of club legends, match-worn boots under glass, yellowing newspaper clippings of promotion celebrations, and a photo—slightly faded—of the club's first ever promotion to Serie A. There was pride in every inch of the room. History. Identity. A reminder that this club had soul, even if the modern game tried to bleach that out of everything.
President Saverio Carlini sat behind a broad, old oak desk, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. His tailored suit was a shade darker than Alex's shirt, his salt-and-pepper hair combed back like a man who paid attention to every detail. Beside him sat Pantaleo Corvino, the Sporting Director, arms folded, quiet, calculating. Corvino didn't do small talk. He preferred silence—and when he did speak, it meant something.
"Mister Walker," Carlini greeted warmly, rising from his chair. "Please, have a seat."
"Thank you, President," Alex replied, offering a polite nod before settling into the chair across from them.
Pantaleo gave a brief nod of his own. Still silent.
Alex didn't waste time. There was no point dancing around it. He'd rehearsed the words on his way over, over and over again, until they no longer sounded like a pitch and more like a conviction.
"I'll get straight to it," Alex began. "We need to expand our scouting network."
Carlini's brows rose slightly. Corvino didn't move, though Alex caught the faintest twitch in his cheek.
"Right now," Alex continued, "we're limited. We've got regional coverage in the south, a few scouts scattered through northern Italy, and some links to Central Europe. But if we're serious about not just surviving, but staying in Serie A long term, then competing, we need more reach."
He leaned in a little. Not aggressively, but deliberately. Making sure they felt the weight of what he was saying.
"I'm asking for investment in a broader network. Deeper. Smarter. More creative. Southern Italy, yes. Serie C, Serie D, grassroots football. But also outside the country, Eastern Europe, Scandinavia, North and West Africa. We're priced out of stars, so let's find them before they become stars."
Carlini leaned back, steepling his fingers. Pantaleo's eyes narrowed, but he still didn't interrupt.
Alex continued, voice calm but firm.
"The game's changed. Top clubs are scouting sixteen-year-olds. Some even younger. They're locking down potential before the rest of the world even sees it. If we wait until a player's made headlines, it's already too late for us."
Pantaleo finally spoke, his voice low and thoughtful.
"You want us to find the next Kvaratskhelia," he said. "The next Osimhen. Before they become the next anything."
Alex nodded. "Exactly. I'm not asking for millions. I know where we stand. I know we don't have a bottomless budget. But if we're smart, we don't need one. We find the ones no one's watching yet. The kid in a Swedish second division who runs like he's been shot out of a cannon. The Cameroonian winger who grew up playing barefoot but has a touch like silk. The Italian teenager in Serie D whose coach doesn't even realize he's special yet."
There was a pause.
Carlini exhaled, slow and measured.
"And what makes you so sure we'll succeed where so many others have failed?" the president asked.
Alex didn't flinch. "Because I'll be involved. Personally. I won't ask for players I haven't watched myself. Give me access to every report, every video. Let me attend sessions when we bring trialists in. I want boots on the ground. And if we get it right, this pays for itself. Not just in wins. In revenue. We develop them. We sell at a profit. That's the model."
Carlini glanced at Pantaleo, and this time, the old Sporting Director gave a single, deliberate nod.
"You're thinking long-term," Carlini said, finally. "I like that."
"We'll get started," Pantaleo added. "I'll speak with our head of scouting. It won't happen overnight, but we'll start laying the foundation."
Alex allowed himself a breath. A small one. "Good," he said. Then after a beat: "There's one more thing."
Both men looked at him again.
"Patrick Dorgu."
At the mention of the name, Carlini's expression flattened ever so slightly. Pantaleo gave a knowing smirk.
"The rumors about Manchester United aren't going away," Alex said. "I know you're already hearing things. All I ask is that I be kept in the loop. Every call. Every offer. Every whisper."
Pantaleo chuckled softly. "You and half of Europe want to know what's going on with Dorgu. But yes...you'll know. If something concrete comes in, you'll be the first call."
Alex stood and extended his hand. "Thank you. We'll build something here. We just need the right tools."
They shook on it. Carlini's grip was firm, steady. Pantaleo's was brief, but sincere. No promises were made, but Alex had voiced out his concerns and he had been told that the club would get right on to working on them. That was enough for him.
By the time Alex stepped out of the building, the sun was dipping low, casting long golden rays across the rooftops and soaking the cobbled streets of Lecce in amber. It was a beautiful city in the dying light, the kind that looked like a painting if you paused to notice.
But Alex didn't pause.
He made his way to his apartment, the rhythm of the day catching up to him in full. The adrenaline that had carried him through the meeting was gone now, like a tide retreating. He felt the weight settle into his bones as he reached his front door.
Inside, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that didn't feel restful, it felt hollow.
He stepped in, let the door click shut behind him, and dropped his keys into the small wooden bowl on the counter. A soft clink echoed in the room. His jacket followed, tossed over the back of a chair without ceremony. His movements were automatic now. Habitual. Muscle memory doing the work because his mind was still replaying conversations from earlier.
The apartment was modern, but not extravagant. Cream-colored walls. Black-and-white framed photos of old stadiums, San Siro, Highbury, the Maracanã. A few art prints, abstract and moody. The kitchen was clean but lived-in. A few empty coffee mugs on the counter. Tactical notebooks spread across the coffee table. A worn leather couch that sagged slightly in the middle.
The sliding doors to the balcony were cracked open, letting in a breeze tinged with the faint scent of nearby citrus trees. Somewhere, far off, a church bell chimed.
Alex stood in the center of the room.
Still.
He didn't move for a moment. Just stood there, listening to the emptiness.
Eventually, he drifted toward the fridge. Inside, there wasn't much. Half a bottle of water. A carton of eggs. Some leftover pasta in a plastic container that probably needed to be thrown out. He grabbed the water, cracked it open, and leaned against the counter, sipping slowly.
The silence was louder now.
He felt the day draining out of him, not all at once, but gradually. Like a slow leak in a tire. That meeting had felt like something. Like momentum. But back here, surrounded by walls and stillness, it felt distant.
He missed something.
He wasn't sure what, exactly. Laughter, maybe. Presence. Conversation that had nothing to do with formations or conditioning loads. He'd given so much of himself to this job. And he loved it-truly-but there were nights like this where it felt like the job didn't love him back.
He sighed, padded over to the couch, and dropped onto it heavily. His back sank into the cushions. He grabbed the remote and flipped through a few channels. Italian news. A cooking show. Highlights from the Juventus match.
None of it held his attention.
The remote fell onto the cushion beside him.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his assistant:
"Scout meeting scheduled for Thursday. Will send preliminary targets tomorrow."
He replied with a quick thumbs up and a "Thanks," then placed the phone face-down on the table.
The weight of the season, of the whole journey, felt heavier tonight. Not because of pressure. But because of cost.
He'd sacrificed years chasing moments like this. Opportunities. Jobs. Projects. Always on the move. Always hunting for the next step up. The relationships strained, the calls missed, the friendships that faded in the rearview.
All for this.
He rubbed his hands over his face, then leaned back again, eyes staring at the ceiling like it might offer him some kind of answer.
And in the quiet, barely audible, he muttered to himself,
"Let's make this worth it."
And somewhere, deep down, he hoped he wasn't just talking about the club..