The locker room was unusually quiet.
No music. No shouts. No banter. Only the rhythmic tapping of cleats against the tiled floor and the occasional hiss of velcro being adjusted filled the air. It was the kind of silence that demanded respect, a silence heavy with purpose. The players sat fully kitted up, each locked into their own mental space. Some leaned forward, elbows on knees, their gazes fixed on the ground as if answers to victory were hidden in the floor tiles. Others stared intently at the magnetic lineup board on the wall, eyes darting between names and arrows, rehearsing their roles like lines in a war speech.
This was not the silence of nerves. This was the silence of warriors.
Alex Walker stood at the center of it all, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His sharp eyes roamed the room, pausing on every player, one after another. He didn't need to speak yet. He was gauging them, feeling their energy, and letting the moment build.
The locker room light glinted off the club badge pinned to his chest. U.S. Lecce. It still felt surreal. He wasn't supposed to be here. Not in this time, not in this country, not with this squad. But fate had its own playbook.
Finally, he stepped forward, the sound of his boots striking the tile breaking the silence.
"Alright, listen up."
Instantly, every head lifted. Every eye locked onto him.
"This isn't just another game. It's not just another ninety minutes. This is Monza. They're down here with us, fighting for survival, clawing for every point, every mistake, every second of hesitation. They want this as badly as we do. Maybe more."
His voice was calm, but it carried weight. Not anger. Not desperation. Just a deep, unwavering intensity.
"But here's what I want to remind you of," Alex continued, walking slowly across the room. "I've seen you in training. I've watched you work. I've studied your reactions after every win, every draw, every loss. And what I've seen is a group of men who aren't just here to survive."
He turned and faced them all.
"You are winners. Every single one of you. And winners don't wait for the game to come to them. They don't sit back and hope luck does them a favor. No. Winners take the game by the throat. They dominate it. They dictate the terms."
Some of the players leaned forward now, drawn in. Gallo clenched his fists. Krstovic nodded once, slowly.
"From minute one to minute ninety-five, we focus. We press. We control the game. No lapses, no half-efforts. We go out there and play like our lives depend on it. Because for this club, they just might."
A slow exhale escaped from Blin. Touba wiped his hands on his shorts. The energy in the room shifted. It was subtle, but it was there.
"You've trained for this. You've bled for this. Now go out and show this city, this stadium, this league, exactly what you're made of."
He looked around the room one last time, meeting their eyes one by one.
"Let's go win this thing."
There was no explosion of noise. No chest-thumping or dramatic outbursts. Just a collective rise. The players stood up as one, fueled by something deeper than adrenaline. A few clapped each other on the back. One or two shouted words of encouragement. They didn't need theatrics. They were ready.
As the team began filing out of the locker room and into the tunnel, their boots struck the concrete with a steady rhythm, a sound that echoed like war drums in a cave. Every step forward meant one less to retreat.
Alex walked behind them, keeping his pace measured, eyes locked ahead.
The tunnel leading to the pitch was narrow and dimly lit, but at the end of it, daylight spilled in like firelight. And with it, noise. A wall of sound. The moment he stepped into that light, the full weight of it hit him.
The Stadio Via del Mare was alive.
Fans were packed into the stands, a mass of yellow and red, waving scarves, bouncing flags, beating drums. Smoke from flares curled into the air like spirits of old warriors, and a rumble of raw energy surged around the pitch like a living thing. It wasn't just noise. It was belief. It was desperation. It was hope.
Alex blinked as the sunlight caught his eyes. He'd seen this kind of atmosphere before in his playing days, but standing there now, in the skin of a manager, in a body younger than he remembered and a time that wasn't supposed to be his, it felt overwhelming.
Then, something unexpected happened.
A chant began in the east stand. It was clumsy at first, a handful of voices trying to find their rhythm, but it grew. Like a match catching flame, it spread through the stadium until it became a booming chorus.
"Ohhh, Aleexx Waaalkerrr! He's our man, he's our fight! He's the one who'll take us right!"
Alex froze for half a second. His chest tightened. His breath caught.
It wasn't the words. It was the meaning behind them. It was the fact that these people, strangers to him just a week ago, were already placing their faith in him. Chanting his name like he was a symbol of salvation.
He didn't know if he deserved it yet. But damn if it didn't hit him hard.
He forced himself to wave, just briefly, then returned his focus to the pitch. No time for sentiment. He couldn't afford to lose focus. Not now.
The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, snapping him back into the present.
"Signore e signori, your starting eleven for U.S. Lecce!"
Alex looked up at the massive screen above the south stand as the lineup was displayed.
Formation: 3-4-3
Goalkeeper: Wladimiro Falcone
Back three: Marin Pongracic, Federico Baschirotto, Ahmed Touba
Midfield four: Antonino Gallo on the left wingback, Ylber Ramadani and Medon Berisha in the center, and Marco Sala on the right wingback.
Front three: Lameck Banda on the left wing, Nikola Krstovic at striker, and Patrick Dorgu on the right wing.
Yes. Patrick Dorgu. The fullback. Playing as a right winger.
Alex watched the crowd's reaction closely. A ripple of murmurs swept through. Some fans clapped, others tilted their heads, clearly surprised. But no boos. No outrage. Just curiosity and energy.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Let's see if this works," he muttered to himself.
It wasn't just a hunch. It was calculated. Dorgu had shown flashes of brilliance in training, especially when given freedom to run at defenders. He had pace, skill, and unpredictability. Playing him higher up allowed Lecce to stretch the pitch and press with more aggression. Gendrey was solid enough to cover the space behind him, and with the back three staying disciplined, it could work.
It might also blow up in his face.
But that was the job, wasn't it? Making decisions, trusting your gut, and standing by them, win or lose.
He turned to glance toward the Monza technical area. Their coach stood stiffly, arms folded, expression unreadable. Alex gave him a brief nod, then turned back toward the pitch.
The players were lining up now, facing each other, shaking hands, adjusting shin guards, bouncing on their toes. The officials took their positions. The fourth official stood on the sideline, holding the electronic board, waiting for the signal.
Then came the moment before the storm.
The chanting swelled again. The beating of the drums rose to a crescendo. Someone lit a flare in the curva, and red smoke curled into the air like a rising spirit. It was chaos and beauty and fury all at once.
Alex stepped into his technical area. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. His heartbeat steady now.
This was it.
The referee raised his whistle to his lips.
And the game began.