Alex woke up gasping for air.
Sunlight streamed through the partially open window, casting golden stripes across a white ceiling. He sat up, drenched in sweat, heart thumping like a war drum. His lungs struggled to catch up with reality, each breath more panicked than the last.
His head ached.
He was... alive?
He blinked hard, trying to bring the room into focus. Everything looked... off. Familiar, but wrong. The smell of fresh espresso drifted in from the open kitchen. A distant sound of birds chirping outside the balcony. There was no beeping heart monitor. No IV drip. No antiseptic sting of a hospital room.
He looked around. The room was spacious, modern, and painfully familiar. Polished wooden floors, a massive 4K television mounted on the wall, minimalist black shelves stocked with a few books and awards. A glass coffee table with a bottle of Italian wine—half-empty—and yesterday's La Gazzetta dello Sport folded on the couch.
The architecture, the furniture... his apartment in Lombardy, Italy.
He stumbled out of bed, his legs shaky, and shuffled to the window. With trembling hands, he pulled the blinds aside. The rolling hills of Lombardy basked in morning gold, stretching as far as his eyes could see. The sun was high already.
"What the hell..." he muttered.
Had he survived the heart attack? Was this some sort of miracle recovery? Or was it a dream?
He rushed back inside, grabbed his phone from the nightstand, and jabbed at the screen. The lock screen blinked to life. One notification. The time: 10:03 AM. The date: October 14, 2024.
He froze.
"No. No, no, no."
He sprinted to the desk, knocking over a chair as he threw himself down in front of his laptop. The boot-up was agonizingly slow. His hands trembled over the keyboard as he typed in every search he could think of.
"Premier League 2024/2025 standings."
"Euro 2024 results."
"Inter Milan retirement."
Each search confirmed the same thing: It was 2024. October. Not 2030.
He stared at the screen, his breath ragged. He had gone back. Back in time. Six years.
He hadn't coached Everton. Hadn't suffered the four relegations. Hadn't made the horrible signings. The scandals. The media fiascos. None of it.
His heart thundered in his chest.
He ran to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and stared at his reflection.
Same black hair, still slicked and thick. Fewer wrinkles. No grey hairs peppering his beard. His skin was tighter, cleaner. His eyes—still that sharp blue, still haunted—looked younger, less tired.
"A second chance…" he whispered.
His knees buckled and he slid down against the cold tile wall, head in his hands. He laughed. Then cried. Then laughed again, half-hysterical.
What kind of divine joke was this?
After nearly an hour of sitting on the bathroom floor, his back stiff and eyes sore, Alex stood up and walked back into the living room. He poured himself a glass of water, then slumped onto the couch, still not fully convinced he wasn't trapped in some coma-induced delusion.
But everything felt too real. The warmth of the sunlight. The bitter taste of leftover espresso in his mouth. The soreness in his legs.
If this was a dream, it was the most convincing one he'd ever had.
He switched on the TV. A Serie A match replay was on—a young talent from Napoli tearing up Bologna's defense. Alex barely registered the commentary.
His mind was already moving.
"I'm not doing this again," he muttered aloud, as if trying to set the rule into stone. "No coaching. I'll become a pundit. Do some commentary. Something simple."
He still had name value. Still had a legacy—at least, for now. He could make a nice living discussing tactics from a studio desk instead of pacing a touchline like a madman.
He grabbed his laptop again and opened a browser.
"BT Sport punditry application."
"Sky Italia football analyst roles."
"Retired players in media 2024."
He made a quick list of media companies. Wrote a few names he remembered from his playing days—contacts who might still be around. He reached out to a few agencies, drafted a professional letter. Began updating his CV.
It felt good. Stable. Comfortable.
He was halfway through choosing a photo for his resume when—
[Ding! Coaching System Online.]
Alex jumped so hard he knocked his coffee mug off the table. It shattered across the floor.
The notification floated before his eyes. Not on the laptop. Not on the phone. It was like it was in his vision.
"What the hell?"
[Welcome back, Host.]
"Back? What do you mean back? Who are you?"
[The Coaching System is your assistant and companion, designed to maximize your managerial potential and tactical execution. You have been granted a second chance. Your previous career failure rate has triggered activation.]
"I didn't ask for this!"
[New Objective: Acquire a managerial position before January 1, 2025.]
Alex blinked.
"Wait. You're telling me... I have to get a coaching job?"
[Failure to complete objective will result in system dormancy and permanent loss of progression potential.]
His mouth went dry.
"Progression potential? What the hell does that mean?"
[Future features include: Tactical Auto-Simulation. Dynamic Player Analysis. Transfer Negotiation Assistance. Press Management System. Medical Squad Integration.]
It read like some fantasy interface. A Football Manager cheat engine come to life. But it felt... real. Tangible.
He stood up, pacing.
He didn't want to coach again. That life had nearly killed him. Literally.
But this... this wasn't the same. Not exactly. If this thing—this system—was real, maybe he could do it differently. Smarter. Avoid the traps. Cut out the egos. The stupid signings. The mistakes.
He glanced down at his hands. They were no longer trembling.
"No relegations this time," he whispered. "No more failure."
He walked back to the couch, refreshed the news tabs. Maybe he could just dip a toe into the water. Maybe there were jobs available. He wouldn't commit. Not yet. Just... browse.
And so, as the sun continued to rise above the Italian hills, casting shadows across a man caught between redemption and ruin, Alex Walker began scrolling through job listings on Transfermarkett and football news sites—reluctantly preparing for something he swore he'd never touch again.