The sun had barely risen when Alex stepped into the training ground. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and sweat, something he was starting to find oddly comforting. There was something raw and honest about it, like it belonged only to footballers and farmers. It was recovery day. For most players, it was supposed to be a time to rest and recharge, filled with ice baths, stretching sessions, massages, some light jogging, and maybe a bit of quiet reflection. But for Alex Walker, recovery didn't mean slowing down. Not when there was still work to do.
After the players finished their recovery routines under the eyes of the medical and fitness staff, Alex gathered them in the locker room. The mood was still high. The buzz from the 3–1 win against Monza hadn't quite worn off yet. The boys looked loose, relaxed, still smiling like they were walking on air.
But Alex wasn't smiling.
He stood at the front of the room, arms crossed over his chest, eyes sharp and unwavering. The faint hum from the overhead fluorescent lights was the only thing making a sound as the players quieted down. There was a tension in the silence, one they all felt, even if they didn't understand it just yet.
"Alright," Alex started, his voice low but firm, slicing right through the silence like a razor, "that was a good win. You played like fucking warriors out there. You deserved every bit of the applause you got. But..."
He let the pause linger, letting the weight of that 'but' land properly. He could almost see the smiles beginning to falter around the room.
"...you don't get to enjoy that forever. We've got Fiorentina next. And they're not Monza. They're not gonna give you three chances and hope you bury one. They'll punish you for every mistake. Every sloppy touch. Every slow decision. Every inch of laziness."
The atmosphere in the room shifted. Jokes faded, eyes narrowed. The players knew this wasn't just a speech. This was a warning.
"I'm not here to piss on your parade," Alex continued, his tone softening just a bit, "but that same performance? It's not gonna cut it against them. You want to feel that high again? That same electric buzz? Then we've got to get better. And fast."
He shifted his gaze to the attacking players specifically, his voice growing more pointed.
"Especially you forwards. You're staying back after this. We're gonna fix that finishing. I don't care if you hate it. We're doing it."
A chorus of groans rose from that corner of the locker room.
"Oh, don't be babies," Alex replied, grinning just slightly. "You get paid to score goals, not to miss sitters like the goal is cursed."
"Gaffer, I scored yesterday," Dorgu piped up from the back, his usual cheeky smile in full force.
"Yeah, after missing two you should've buried in your sleep," Alex shot back without missing a beat. "You're lucky your legs are fast enough to outrun your own mistakes."
Laughter exploded across the room. It felt good. Light, even. But it didn't take away from the message.
"Alright, piss off, the rest of you," Alex clapped his hands. "Go stretch, hydrate, sleep, whatever you need. Forwards, I want you on the pitch in five."
The non-attacking players stood and filtered out, grumbling good-naturedly as they grabbed their bottles and towels. Some tossed jokes over their shoulders as they left. Alex didn't stop them. He wanted the room light. He just didn't want them getting comfortable.
Once the forwards were gathered, the real work began.
Over the next hour, Alex ran them through an intense sequence of finishing drills. They did one-touch shooting from the edge of the box, pressured finishing in tight spaces, reaction volleys inside the six-yard box, and crossing routines where timing was everything. Alex stopped the play often, calling out things most coaches might have missed. He fixed the angle of a shoulder, the delay of a run, the decision to shoot first time or take a touch. It wasn't about perfection. It was about repetition and instinct. He wanted these moments to become muscle memory.
He wasn't being harsh to be harsh. He genuinely wanted them to improve.
And when he saw Dorgu fluff a simple tap-in with the outside of his boot, he rolled his eyes so hard it looked like they might get stuck.
"You're not painting a picture, mate, just finish the bloody thing!"
The players kept laughing, even when they were panting. They could tell Alex was pushing them not because he was angry, but because he gave a damn.
By the time training wrapped up, most of the staff had left the pitch. The sun was climbing higher now, the light getting stronger, shadows shrinking.
Alex lingered behind a bit longer. He found himself standing off to the side, arms folded again, watching Dorgu and Krstovic take turns blasting penalties at one of the younger academy keepers who had wandered over. It wasn't official. Just messing around. Still, Alex stayed and watched. Krstovic slotted his with ease, while Dorgu skyed one over the bar.
"That one's for the fans in Row Z!" Alex called out, laughing as Dorgu turned and shrugged like he meant it.
But eventually, he turned and started walking.
His steps took him toward the adjacent training ground, the one used by the academy squads. He hadn't really planned to go there. He figured he'd pass by, maybe give a nod to one of the youth coaches, glance at some drills, then head back to his office.
But then something caught his eye.
At the far end of the pitch, the U-18s were in session. It was a standard routine. Rondos, some tight passing triangles, then some longer switches across the pitch. Alex watched with only mild interest at first. His mind was already busy, going over early notes on Fiorentina. Their midfield structure, their pressing lines, how to exploit space between their full-backs and center-backs.
And then it happened.
One of the midfielders, a lean boy with dark hair and the number 8 on his bib, received the ball under pressure.
Alex saw it before he even understood it.
The kid didn't panic. Didn't rush. With one calm motion, he used his first touch to escape the press, rolling the ball under his foot, twisting his body to shield it, then slicing a thirty-yard diagonal pass that landed perfectly at the feet of the right winger in stride.
It was one motion. One instinctive, flowing movement.
Alex blinked.
He took a few steps closer to the railing, his attention suddenly locked. The world around him faded away. He couldn't hear the banter from the first team anymore. Couldn't hear the coaches. Couldn't even hear the thuds of the ball. All of it melted into background noise.
All he could see was that kid.
For the next few minutes, Alex didn't move. He just stood there, watching the boy in the number 8 bib dictate the flow of the game like a miniature conductor. He found pockets of space with ease. He asked for the ball with urgency but not desperation. He scanned before receiving. Played with his head up. Even barked instructions to his teammates like he was wearing the captain's armband.
There was something in the way he played. Something you couldn't teach.
Something that made Alex's chest tighten.
He hadn't felt that in years. Not since he was sixteen himself, playing for Manchester United's youth academy, hearing his coaches call him the heartbeat of the team. The brain of the midfield. It was like watching a ghost from the past. Except this ghost wasn't haunting him.
It was inspiring him.
The boy received the ball again. Faked a pass to the wing. Spun around his marker in a flash. Then slid a through ball between two defenders that should've been a tap-in for the striker.
The striker missed.
Alex didn't care.
His eyes stayed on the number 8.
The boy didn't complain. Didn't gesture. Didn't sulk. He just gave a quick thumbs up, clapped his hands, and called for the next pass.
"Who is that?" Alex muttered under his breath.
One of the academy coaches, who had noticed him watching, walked over with a coffee in hand. "That kid? Luca Ferretti. Just turned sixteen. Been with us since he was twelve. Bit on the smaller side for a central midfielder, but he's got a football brain. You can see it, right?"
Alex nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the boy.
"Yeah," he said, voice softer now. "I see it alright."
There was a moment of silence.
Then Alex added, more to himself than the coach, "He moves like I used to."
The coach chuckled lightly. "High praise coming from you. Think you'll come by and watch more of his sessions?"
Alex didn't answer right away. He just stayed there, arms resting on the cold metal railing, watching Luca Ferretti run the game like it belonged to him.
And maybe it did.
Something stirred in Alex's chest. Not stress. Not pressure. Not even ambition.
It was something quieter. Something warmer.
Hope.
Because for all the chaos of running Lecce, for all the tactical plans, post-match reviews, board meetings, and sleepless nights, there was still something pure about watching a kid like that play. Something that reminded him why he fell in love with football in the first place.
Eventually, he turned away, his footsteps slow but steady.
Fiorentina was waiting.
But so was the future.
And he had just caught a glimpse of it.
A/N: Bonus chapter if we make it to 50 Power Stones this week, or three reviews. Two if we smash both targets