Alex Walker leaned back in the stiff taxi seat, eyes unfocused as the lights of Lisbon blurred past the rain-spattered window. The car ride from the Estádio José Alvalade to his hotel was barely twenty minutes, but each second stretched like an hour in his mind. He could still hear the soft-spoken Portuguese accent of Sporting CP's president, Frederico Varandas, as he'd concluded the interview: "We'll be in touch very soon."
The meeting had gone well—at least, Alex thought it had. Polite smiles, thoughtful questions, a measured back-and-forth between him, Varandas, and Sporting's Sporting Director, Hugo Viana. There were the usual queries about philosophy, tactical identity, how he'd manage young talent. He'd been honest—perhaps brutally so.
As the taxi pulled into the hotel's driveway, Alex realized he hadn't taken a deep breath in minutes. The driver said something in Portuguese. Alex blinked.
"Right. Obrigado," he muttered, handing the man a few euros and stepping into the hotel lobby. It smelled of polished wood and lemon oil, fake smiles and business meetings. He barely noticed. His thoughts were on Lisbon's cloudy skies, Sporting CP's crest, and the weight of a second chance that felt like it was already slipping through his fingers.
Back in his room, Alex stripped off his blazer and collapsed onto the bed, arms spread wide like he was ready to be crucified. The rain had started again, pattering against the glass in a soothing rhythm. It might have lulled him into sleep—if his mind wasn't spinning like a top.
"Should I even want this job?" he muttered to himself.
Sporting was one of the big three in Portugal. Champions League football almost every year. Renowned academy. Hungry for success. But also ruthless. Impatient. He couldn't fail again, even if it was technically his first managerial stint, the current him still felt the heartbreak from all his previous failures. And if there was one thing that he learnt from the Everton game, it was that he really didn't have it in him for another failure.
Alex sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and exhaled. He opened his laptop, half-distractedly scrolling through unread emails.
That's when he saw it.
Subject: F.C. Lecce Managerial Offer
His pulse quickened. He opened the message.
Dear Mr. Walker,
Following internal discussions and analysis of your career achievements and managerial potential, U.S. Lecce would like to formally offer you the position of Head Coach of our first team. We believe your experience, profile, and vision can align with our current sporting project.
We would expect you to assume the role after the upcoming November international break. Kindly respond by the end of the week so that contractual details can be finalized.
Yours sincerely,
Saverio Sticchi Damiani, President
Alex's eyes widened.
They weren't offering an interview. They weren't probing or posturing. They were handing him the job.
Just like that.
Lecce.
He knew the club well enough. He'd played against them during his Inter Milan days. Gritty. Passionate. A yo-yo team, always floating between Serie A and Serie B. Modest budget. Small stadium. But fiercely loyal fans.
He leaned back in the chair and stared at the screen.
A straightforward offer... or a trap?
"System," he muttered.
[Ding! Coaching System Online.]
"Which team is better for me right now? Sporting CP or Lecce?"
[Analyzing club data... resources... board expectations... squad profile...]
Alex waited, hands steepled in front of his face. He tried not to hope.
[Sporting CP: Higher club prestige. Strong youth development. European competition exposure. Risk of early termination due to pressure.]
[Lecce: Lower expectations. Smaller transfer budget. Squad cohesion is high. Greater margin for error. Longer-term potential if stabilized.]
[Recommended choice: Lecce (71% suitability score)]
He stared at the floating text.
"Seventy-one percent..."
The system chimed again.
[Note: Sporting CP has yet to make a formal offer. Probability of rejection based on interview response patterns: 62%.]
Alex groaned. "You could've led with that."
He got up and began pacing.
Sporting offered prestige. But the pressure would be immense. A single misstep and the media would rip him apart. Lecce, on the other hand... Lecce felt like the beginning of something. A quieter chapter. A clean slate.
But his pride still lingered.
He poured himself a drink, ice clinking into the glass like the ticking of a decision bomb. Night had fallen now, and the Lisbon skyline glittered dimly outside the window.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He stared at it.
Could it be—?
He answered.
"Alex Walker speaking."
"Good evening, Alex. This is Hugo Viana from Sporting."
His heartbeat spiked.
"Yes, Hugo. Thanks for calling. I appreciate you reaching out."
"Likewise. Listen... I just wanted to thank you for the time today. You spoke well. Honestly. That's rare."
Alex swallowed. "I appreciate that."
A pause.
"That said... we've decided to move forward with a candidate who has a bit more experience. You were a very close second, Alex. I hope you don't take this personally."
"I understand," Alex said, trying to hide the sting.
"We'll be watching. Who knows? Football's a strange game."
Click.
Alex stood in silence, phone still pressed to his ear long after the call ended.
He wasn't mad.
He was... relieved.
"Guess that makes the decision for me."
He walked back to the laptop, reopened the Lecce email, and began typing.
Dear President Damiani,
Thank you for the opportunity. I would be honored to accept the position.
He paused.
Then, typed:
Let's build something great.
He hit send.
The rain kept falling outside, but Alex didn't care. For the first time in years, he felt like he was walking into something with his eyes open.
No delusions.
No shortcuts.
Just football.
And a chance to write the story again—from page one.