Alex Walker's apartment sat quietly on the fifth floor of a modest but well-kept residential complex in Lecce. It wasn't flashy, not the sort of place that screamed wealth or fame, but it had a view. That view overlooked the winding streets of the city, where cobblestone paths twisted like vines between sloping buildings and lazy lamp posts. At night, Lecce always looked peaceful, like a forgotten postcard left unsent at the bottom of a drawer. The city glowed under a soft orange haze, and the occasional rumble of a motorbike echoed in the distance, slicing through the silence like a reminder that the world hadn't entirely gone to sleep.
Alex stepped inside his apartment still wearing his matchday suit. His tie was crooked, his collar slightly bent, and his hair looked like he'd run a hand through it more times than he should have. He was tired, though not in the bone-deep, can't-move kind of way. It was more like the adrenaline had burned itself out, and now, all that was left was the comedown.
The front door clicked shut behind him, and just like that, silence swallowed everything.
Alex stood still for a second, keys dangling in his fingers, wet hair clinging to his forehead. The buzz from the stadium, the yelling in the locker room, even the chaotic press conference, it all felt like a fever dream now that he was back in his apartment. It was like stepping out of a movie and finding himself dropped into a blank page.
He didn't move for a while. Just stood there in the entryway, listening to nothing.
The lights flicked on automatically as he stepped into the open-plan space. Everything looked exactly the same. White walls, smooth wooden flooring, a glass coffee table with two coasters no one ever used. A wide-screen TV stared back at him like an unused canvas, remote untouched. There were trophies on the shelf above the minimalist fireplace, dusted and gleaming. Fake plants stood in expensive pots like little statues. To his left, a pristine kitchen that had barely seen use since the day he moved in. The espresso machine still had its sticker on it. The oven had never been turned on.
It was modern, clean, and quiet. Too quiet. Too clean.
Alex sighed. Loudly, on purpose. Just to hear something. Just to remind himself that he was still in the world.
He kicked off his shoes and dropped the keys on the counter. The metal clink echoed off the walls like a bell in a cathedral. His coat went on the back of a chair he never sat in. He rubbed at the back of his neck, the muscles still tight and knotted from the match. Lecce had beaten Fiorentina. They'd gotten the three points. It was a massive win. A win that could turn the narrative, shift the pressure, silence the critics.
And yet…
He stood there, staring into space, as if waiting for something. A voice. A laugh. A dog barking. Anything.
Nothing came.
He let out another breath as he stepped into the smaller room tucked into the corner, the so-called guest room. But no guest had ever stayed there. He had turned it into his makeshift office instead. A desk, a monitor, a second-hand printer that made awful noises every time it was used. Boxes filled the edges of the room, packed with notes, tactical journals, printouts, old scouting sheets, and coaching books he barely had time to read anymore.
Most of the boxes were still sealed. He hadn't unpacked fully. Maybe he never would. Maybe a part of him never intended to stay long enough to make this place feel like home.
He flopped into the chair with a low grunt, spinning once to loosen the tightness in his back. Then he leaned forward and opened his laptop. The motion was automatic. His body moved before his brain had even processed it.
Next opponent: Frosinone.
Mid-table team. Hungry. Young squad. Played with energy and fearlessness. Aggressive press. A little wild in defense, but they made up for it by swarming like hornets when they lost the ball. High risk, high chaos.
He started typing out ideas. Defensive shape against their 4-3-3. Triggers for when they overcommit. Ways to break their press using a false fullback system. He wasn't really thinking. It was like his fingers were operating on muscle memory, reacting to years of watching, studying, obsessing.
Football was the only rhythm he knew. It was the beat that had carried him through injuries, through headlines, through victories and collapses. It was the only thing that had ever made any kind of sense. The only thing that gave his life structure.
He rubbed his eyes, fingers lingering over the lids. The glow from the screen stung a little now.
He glanced at the clock in the corner.
8:07 PM.
He hadn't eaten. Hadn't had water. Hadn't spoken to anyone besides reporters, his players, and Isabella all day. His phone was silent. No missed calls. No unread messages.
The quiet wrapped around him again. Like a cold blanket pulled up to the chin. Comforting in some twisted way, but also smothering.
He stared at the scouting report on Frosinone that he hadn't touched. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then, without really thinking about it, he muttered under his breath.
"Fuck it. I'm going to a bar."
He stood up, grabbed his coat, and walked out without checking his phone or looking in the mirror.
The bar was just off the main street in Lecce, hidden away behind a shuttered bakery and under a canopy of old, flickering orange streetlights. Wires ran between the buildings above like forgotten streamers. The smell of baked bread still lingered in the air, even though the bakery had been closed for months. The bar wasn't trendy. It wasn't loud. But it had life. The kind of life that felt like a heartbeat.
Inside, there were maybe a dozen people. Soft murmurs filled the room. Laughter in low doses. Glasses clinking. Someone let out a little gasp as a highlight replayed on the muted TV screen hanging above the bar.
Alex walked in with his head down, cap pulled low. The cap wasn't even his. It had been in the Lecce training room's lost and found. He didn't care.
Not that anyone would recognize him anyway. He wasn't exactly a celebrity here. Just a guy in a suit yelling from the touchline.
But tonight, he didn't want to be a manager. Or a football mind. Or the failed prodigy trying to rebuild something in a league most had already forgotten. He just wanted to sit. To breathe.
The bartender looked up and gave him a small nod. Recognition, maybe. But no questions.
"Birra?" the man asked, already reaching for a glass.
Alex nodded. "Strongest one you've got."
The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. A few seconds later, the cold glass touched his palm.
He didn't drink it right away. Just stared at it for a bit. Watched the condensation slide down like little raindrops on a windowpane. His reflection stared back at him from the polished bar top, warped and faint. His face looked tired. Hollow around the eyes. The kind of face that had smiled too much in the past and had forgotten how to lately.
He took a long sip.
It was bitter. Sharp. It hit the back of his throat and settled in his chest like a small fire.
That was better.
He sat there for a while. Not thinking. Not planning. Just existing.
Then a familiar voice.
"Didn't expect to see you here."
He turned slightly, and there she was. Isabella. Hair tied up loosely, an oversized gray sweater hanging off one shoulder, a wine glass hanging from her fingers like it was an accessory. She looked… different here. Like herself, but less put together in the best way. Like she could finally exhale.
Alex blinked. "You stalking me now?"
She smirked and took the stool next to him. "Please. This place is two streets from my apartment. You're the outsider here, not me."
"Lucky coincidence then."
"Or fate."
Alex gave her a sidelong glance. "Please don't say 'fate'. I've had enough of that word to last me three lifetimes."
Isabella laughed, the sound light and real. She looked relaxed, like someone who had left their job behind at the door.
They both stared at the TV screen for a while. Lazio was getting destroyed. Alex chuckled under his breath. Couldn't happen to a nicer team.
"You know," Isabella said, swirling her wine slowly, "most coaches would be out celebrating a win like that with their staff. Or at least texting their wives or girlfriends."
Alex raised his glass in a little toast. "No staff dinner. No wife. No girlfriend. Just me and a good old scouting report on Frosinone."
"Sounds depressing."
"It's routine," he replied. "I'm used to it."
Isabella didn't respond right away. But he felt her eyes on him. Like she was trying to see past his words.
"I gave everything to football," he said quietly, without really meaning to. "All my youth, my energy, my health. Everything. And now I'm here. Still doing it. Still giving more."
She didn't interrupt him.
"Do you regret it?" she asked.
He didn't answer immediately. His mind went to Madrid. The lights, the banners, the screaming crowds. He thought of Manchester. Of the injuries. Of Everton. The shame. The weight. The collapse.
"…Some days," he admitted. "Other days, I think I wouldn't know how to live without it."
Isabella nodded slowly. "You know, you don't have to carry it all alone."
Alex smiled faintly. "You offering to join my tactical team?"
She rolled her eyes. "Not a chance."
They laughed. Quietly. But it felt good.
They stayed until the bartender gave them that familiar closing-time nod.
When they stepped outside, the air was cooler than before. A little breeze rolled through the narrow street, carrying the scent of stone and distance.
Isabella zipped up her coat. "You sure you're okay getting home?"
Alex nodded. "Yeah. I need the walk."
She paused, then leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek. The gesture was soft. Not romantic. Just human.
"Don't let this job eat you alive," she said. "You're allowed to breathe too, you know."
She turned and walked away, disappearing into the quiet of Lecce's narrow streets.
For a long moment, he stood there, hands buried in his coat pockets, staring up at the starless sky.
Then he turned and walked the other way.
Alone. But a little less heavy.
A/N: Bonus chapter if we make it to 50 Power Stones this week, or three reviews. Two if we smash both targets.