Alex didn't even get the chance to change out of his matchday suit. Sweat still clung to the collar of his white shirt, and his tie hung slightly loose around his neck. Before he could even unlace one shoe, the locker room door swung open with a sharp creak, and in marched Isabella, Lecce's ever-relentless press officer. She didn't wait for him to notice her.
"Up. Now," she said, tugging lightly at his sleeve with a knowing smirk.
The cheers and laughter of his players, still riding the high of their hard-fought win, echoed behind him like a fading chorus. It was a sound that deserved to be savored. But instead of basking in it for just a few more minutes, Alex was being marched down the concrete hallway of the stadium like some kind of post-match sacrifice.
"Isabella, can we not just..." He trailed off, hoping for a miracle.
"No chance," she replied without even slowing her pace. "They're already in there, and you're the hero of the hour. Let's not keep them waiting."
Alex groaned under his breath. "Alright. Let's get this over with."
The fluorescent lights above them hummed like a swarm of invisible bees, and the buzz of adrenaline from the match began to fade. He felt the stiffness in his legs and the dull throb behind his eyes. It was all catching up to him now. Victory had a way of covering up fatigue, but only until the interviews started.
As the door to the press room swung open, a wave of sound and heat rushed out. The sharp clicks of camera shutters were relentless, like a swarm of insects descending. The voices of reporters layered over each other in low murmurs, like a sea of barely restrained questions waiting to break free. Blinding white lights hovered overhead, focused on the small platform where he was expected to sit and bare his soul to strangers.
Alex stepped onto the stage, straightening his back and squinting through the haze. He sat down behind the microphone, adjusting the angle as he scanned the room. He wasn't exactly nervous. Just… tired. Tired in a way that went beyond muscle soreness or mental fatigue. It was the kind of tired that came from always having something to prove.
Then he spotted a familiar face.
Luca Benedetti stood first, notebook in hand and a faint smile on his lips.
"Good evening, Alex," he began. "Luca Benedetti from the Italian Sports Daily. A very impressive performance from Lecce tonight. Given the early chaos, were you worried at any point that the team might lose their grip?"
Alex exhaled through his nose and offered a half shrug. "Football's emotional. You go a goal up, the other side pushes harder. Then Dorgu goes down, there's the confrontation… of course I was worried. But I was more focused on the response. Not just the players. The bench. The staff. We stayed calm. We regrouped."
Luca nodded, scribbling something down. "And after Duncan was sent off, Lecce looked like a completely different team. Aggressive, composed. What changed?"
"Honestly? Nothing. We had already planned to play that way. The red card just made the shape of it clearer. Less traffic in the middle gave us room to breathe."
Next to rise was Giulia Moretti, notebook tucked under her arm like a shield.
"Alex, I want to ask about Dorgu. He looked okay after the tackle but you brought him off anyway. Could you elaborate on the decision?"
Alex leaned forward, fingers laced together on the table. "Yeah, of course. He said he was fine. But we don't play Russian roulette with a player's health. I trust my medical team, and I trust my eyes. He was limping. He might've wanted to push through it, and that's admirable, but we have a season to think about. I'm not throwing away one of our best assets for thirty more minutes of adrenaline."
He gave a small smile. "And he understood. We had a good talk on the bench."
Giulia's brows lifted in acknowledgment before she sat back down. The questions came again like a steady drumbeat.
A tall man in a navy blazer stood next. "Alessandro Ferretti from The Sportsman Journal. This win moves you up two spots on the table, from sixteenth to fourteenth. How big is this victory for your season objectives?"
Alex paused, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. "It's massive. Not just for the points, but for the belief. You beat a side like Fiorentina, fifth in the table, well-drilled, talented, experienced... it gives you permission to believe that maybe you're not just here to hang on for dear life. Maybe you're here to actually compete."
"And the missed chances before the second goal?" Alessandro added. "Did those drive you crazy?"
Alex gave a wry laugh. "Of course. Krstović should've buried that header. Oudin had the whole near post and decided to go for power instead of placement. You're screaming inside, pulling your hair out on the touchline. But then... second goal. And all the frustration suddenly becomes background noise."
The room chuckled along with him. It was easy camaraderie, the kind that came from shared understanding. For a moment, it almost felt like they were all on the same side. But that changed with the next voice.
Raphael Farias, a sharp-eyed reporter from Naples with a reputation for throwing verbal grenades, rose slowly.
"Alex, there's a comment going viral on social media right now," he began, voice sharp. "Fiorentina's manager was quoted post-match saying, and I quote, 'Lecce didn't come to play football today. It was an embarrassment. Underhanded tactics and time-wasting. I'm ashamed for Alex Walker.'"
He looked straight at Alex. "Any response to that?"
The room stilled. The clicking stopped. Even the buzzing lights seemed to hold their breath.
Alex blinked, once, slowly. Then, to everyone's surprise, he laughed.
Not a light laugh. A deep, belly laugh that echoed against the press room walls. It was the kind of laugh that said, are you serious right now?
He leaned back in his chair, still grinning, then leaned forward again into the mic.
"That's rich," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Someone remind me. Where's Fiorentina in the table?"
Several heads turned to phones, but Giulia spoke up first. "Fifth."
"And us?"
"You were sixteenth before tonight. Now fourteenth."
Alex tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming. "Right. So Fiorentina. Top five. Good squad. Experienced coach. Meanwhile Lecce is supposed to be fighting relegation every year."
He looked directly into Raphael's eyes.
"I don't know about Fiorentina," he said slowly, voice lowering. "But we didn't come here to play football."
There was a pause. The silence was thick enough to feel.
Then came the follow-up.
"We came here to get three points. Fiorentina can keep playing football all they want. But we got what we came for."
Another beat of silence.
And then the press room exploded.
Laughter erupted from all corners, the kind that came with a touch of disbelief. Some scribbled faster. Others just stared. Cameras flashed. One journalist whispered, "That's going viral, no doubt."
Isabella, standing just out of frame near the wall, dropped her face into her palm and sighed dramatically. "Why are you like this..." she muttered, but there was no real anger in her voice.
Alex allowed himself a real smile this time. One that reached his eyes. For the first time in what felt like weeks, the tension in his shoulders eased. This wasn't a courtroom tonight. This wasn't a firing squad. It was just a room full of people, some fans, some skeptics, but all starting to realize something.
He wasn't just surviving. He was making waves.
"Next question?" he asked, almost cheekily.
But Isabella stepped forward before anyone else could rise.
"Nope," she said firmly, clapping her hands together. "That's it. That's your mic-drop moment. We're done. Thank you, everyone."
The room burst into movement again. Chairs scraped across the floor. Reporters clicked off their recorders. The buzz returned, this time lighter, charged with energy from the final quote. It was the kind of moment that would replay across TV screens and social media timelines for days.
Alex stood, gave a small wave, and turned to leave. The door opened, and he stepped back into the hallway where the hum of the stadium lights felt oddly comforting.
As he walked, he could still hear the laughter echoing behind him. Some days, being Lecce's manager felt like dragging a wheelbarrow through mud. Every step a battle, every decision second-guessed.
But today?
Today, it felt damn good.
A/N: Bonus chapter if we make it to 50 Power Stones this week, or three reviews. Two if we smash both targets.