The final whistle rang out like a sigh across the Unipol Domus. 1–1. A point on the road, but it felt like two lost.
Alex Walker didn't even bother masking his expression. Hands on hips, lips pressed in a tight line, he walked over to shake hands with the Cagliari manager, brief, polite, but devoid of warmth. His mind was already swirling with a thousand tactical images, flashes of what could have been. He didn't bother scanning the crowd or acknowledging the traveling fans. He was locked in his own world of frustration.
The players trudged off the pitch behind him, visibly disappointed. Patrick Dorgu, man of the match in all but name, wiped sweat from his brow as he spoke with Kaba. Their words were lost to the wind, but their expressions told the story: they knew they'd let something slip. Früchtl, still wearing the gloves that had barely been tested after halftime, tugged them off with a frustrated motion, his jaw clenched.
It wasn't just that they had drawn. It was how they had drawn. Lecce had played like the better team for long spells, showing more organization, intensity, and creativity. Yet the scoreboard read 1-1, and that cold arithmetic didn't care for context.
In the post-match press room, Alex sat alone behind the microphone stand. His grey Lecce polo was slightly damp at the collar, and the fatigue was creeping into the bags under his eyes. He hadn't even showered yet. Just pulled on the team polo over his training top, marched into the press conference, and waited. The room buzzed, local reporters from Lecce and Sardinia, a few national outlets, and the ever-hovering Sky Italia correspondents, always hungry for soundbites.
The moderator gave a small nod, and the questions began.
"Alex, a point away from home. Your thoughts?"
Alex leaned forward slightly, his elbows on the table. "It's a strange feeling. I'm proud of the performance. We controlled large stretches of the game. The lads did what I asked of them. We pressed well, dominated possession, created more chances than I can even count. We were brave in our build-up, disciplined without the ball. That's not easy against a team like Cagliari in their own backyard."
He paused, inhaled slowly, then added with a firmer tone: "But I'm disappointed. Very disappointed. Because we should have won. Comfortably."
The reporters scribbled down notes quickly, eyes narrowing. Some tapped rapidly on their phones, live-tweeting quotes.
Alex continued. "We carved them open multiple times. Missed clear-cut chances. Three, maybe four goals wouldn't have flattered us. And when you don't take those opportunities, football punishes you. That's what happened today."
A Sky reporter raised a hand. "Alex, the Cagliari manager, Claudio Ranieri, said post-match that he believes his side also deserved to win and were unlucky not to. Any response to that?"
Alex's mouth twitched, half smirk, half grimace.
"Maybe he watched a different game," Alex said while biting his cheeks trying not to smile. Anyone passionate football fan who watched the match would've given Ranieri a slap on the face if they stood beside him when he made that comment. "Look, I respect Claudio. But if we're being honest, there was only one team in control out there, and it wasn't them."
Some murmurs rippled through the press gallery. A few eyebrows were raised. They were quite surprised. Usually a new manager, a relatively young and inexperienced one at that, wouldn't be that bold or wouldn't say words like that. He straight up insulted Ranieri.
Another journalist chimed in, "Do you feel the result puts more pressure on you, given Lecce's current standing?"
Alex nodded slowly. "There's always pressure in this job. But I don't hide from it. This is a project. It won't be built overnight. But if we keep performing like that? The results will come."
A few more questions followed, but Alex kept it tight. He praised Dorgu, credited the back line for their discipline, and admitted the need to be more clinical up front. Then, with a final thanks, he stood and walked out.
The next day, the air around the training ground was heavy but not toxic. Just… tired. Recovery day.
Most of the players were already in the physio room or doing light bike work in the gym area of the training facility. Others were lounging in the warm-up hall, watching analysis clips from the match. The analysts had already clipped together sequences from the match—the missed chances, the high pressing sequences, the transition moments.
Alex sat in his office, fingers drumming along the edge of a medical report that lay open on his desk. It had been a restless night. He had replayed that Ante Rebić miss at least thirty times in his head. The image of Kaba's near-post touch drifting just wide haunted him. Those fine margins that decided games had all tilted the wrong way.
In front of him, a pile of paperwork loomed: scouting reports, medical updates, a disciplinary file from the Primavera coach, and a transfer update from the Director of Football. He had been meaning to watch the Under-18s in their weekend match, but the schedule simply hadn't allowed it. Tactical prep for Cagliari had taken over everything.
That irked him. Development was part of the mission here, and he couldn't support it by skimming match reports.
"I think I need to get scouts". Alex muttered to himself. The club scouts were the ones that were supposed to pay attention to Academy talents. He'd only keep an eye on one or two when they recommended them. Unfortunately, a club like Lecce rarely depended on their academy talents so they didn't have any local scouts with them. Another thing that Alex had to fix
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door.
"Come in," he called, voice neutral but curious.
The door creaked open, and in walked Nikola Krstović and Lameck Banda.
Alex raised an eyebrow. The tension from the other day, the skipped extra drill, was still fresh in his memory. Krstović hadn't played a minute against Cagliari, and Banda had been left out of the matchday squad altogether.
"Got a minute?" Krstović asked, his tone surprisingly neutral.
Alex sat back in his chair, gesturing toward the empty chairs in front of his desk.
"Sure," he said. "Let's talk."