The sun over Salento was sharp and golden as Alex Walker stepped off the plane at Brindisi Airport. The light here was different—cleaner, somehow, than Lisbon's muted greys and winter haze. It cut across the tarmac like a spotlight, catching on the edges of glass and steel, bouncing off the terminal windows with a brilliance that felt almost theatrical. The chill of Lisbon was a memory now, replaced by the crisp Mediterranean breeze that rolled inland from the Adriatic, carrying with it the scent of salt and citrus, of old stone warmed by sunlight.
Alex adjusted his navy blazer as he descended the steps onto the runway. It clung slightly to his shoulders, too warm for the coastal air, but he kept it on. This wasn't a vacation. It wasn't a reunion or a nostalgic visit to southern Italy. This was work. A mission. Maybe even redemption, though he'd never admit that out loud. This was the start of something.
Waiting at the terminal's private arrivals lounge were two men he recognized instantly, though he'd only seen them in articles and the occasional video interview.
Saverio Sticchi Damiani, the president of U.S. Lecce, stood at the front. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored grey suit, his posture straight, his presence quiet but commanding. A lawyer by profession, Damiani had a calm, composed air, with eyes that didn't dart or waver. They studied, measured. A man used to reading people before they even spoke.
Beside him was Pantaleo Corvino, Lecce's storied sporting director. Shorter, broader, with thinning white hair and the unmistakable aura of someone who had spent his entire life in football. Corvino was the kind of figure who could spot a future international from a grainy youth tournament clip. Revered across Italy, feared by agents, and known for his blunt assessments and uncanny scouting instincts.
"Mr. Walker," Damiani greeted him in warm, Italian-accented English, extending a hand. "Welcome to Lecce."
Alex took it firmly. "Thank you, President. It's a pleasure."
Corvino was next. His handshake was firmer, heavier, as though weighing Alex's resolve through the contact alone.
"We've been following you closely," Corvino said, voice low but assured. "Your playing career speaks for itself."
Alex nodded. "Hopefully my coaching will too, this time around." His smile was small, but sincere.
The introductions were brief. No grandstanding. No press. Just a black car waiting at the curb, its engine humming softly as the three men slid inside. The drive from Brindisi to Lecce took just under forty minutes, cutting through landscapes that felt like paintings: olive groves twisted with age, dry-stone walls bordering endless fields, and roads that curled through the countryside like old vines.
They didn't speak much on the ride. Damiani and Corvino occasionally pointed out landmarks, but Alex mostly watched the world outside the window. Baroque churches rose from narrow town squares like relics of another era. Whitewashed houses stood clustered beneath red-tiled roofs, their shutters open to the breeze. The Adriatic glinted far off on the horizon, a strip of shifting blue under the noonday sun.
They didn't go to the stadium right away. Instead, the car veered toward the city's quieter side streets, pulling into a compact parking lot beside a low, modern building with the Lecce crest on the glass doors. The club offices. Modest but clean, with white walls and terracotta tiles, shaded by a few tall cypresses.
Inside, they climbed a narrow staircase to a glass-walled boardroom. The air conditioning hummed softly. A tray of espresso and biscotti waited on the table, untouched.
"Let's talk targets," Damiani said, settling into a leather chair with a smooth, practiced motion.
"Of course," Alex nodded, easing into the seat across from him.
Corvino opened a folder. Inside was a sheaf of papers: squad lists, training reports, financial spreadsheets, even some recent match stats.
"Our situation is simple," Corvino began. "But not easy. We want to stay in Serie A. That is the primary goal. Survival."
Alex nodded, unsurprised. "I expected as much."
"Our budget is… constrained," Damiani added with a trace of hesitation. "You will not have tens of millions. Maybe not even one. But we will back you. Within reason."
"I'm not here to spend," Alex replied. "I'm here to build."
Corvino's face didn't move much, but there was a flicker of approval in his eyes. "We have some good young players. And a few experienced ones. Not much depth. You'll need to be smart."
"That's the plan," Alex replied, voice steady.
They pored over the roster for almost an hour. Names jumped out to Alex quickly. Wladimiro Falcone, the goalkeeper, commanding, with good instincts and quick reflexes. Federico Baschirotto, a brick wall of a defender, fearless in the tackle and vocal at the back. Nikola Krstovic, the Montenegrin striker-young, hungry, with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove. And Lameck Banda, the Zambian winger with rocket-fueled pace and a daring edge to his play.
"You'll officially take charge after the international break," Damiani said eventually, sliding a contract across the table. "Your coaching license is being processed. We've smoothed things over with the FIGC."
Alex read through it quickly. Salary: modest by top-flight standards, but fair. Duration: eighteen months, with an option to extend. Incentives built in for survival, for finishing top ten, for youth development.
He didn't hesitate. He signed.
"Let's get to work," he said.
The following days passed in a blur. Media duties. Photoshoots with the Lecce scarf held high. Interviews with regional outlets and local newspapers. He kept his answers careful, diplomatic. He didn't promise miracles.
"I'm here to help Lecce grow," he said more than once. "It's not about me. It's about the team."
But still, the press buzzed. Whispers followed him through the corridors and cafes. What was a man with a Real Madrid pedigree, Champions League winner, English international, doing at a small southern club with a tight budget and survival as its only aim? What had driven him here?
Alex let them speculate. He didn't offer explanations. He didn't owe them any.
Instead, he poured himself into the work. Hours spent at his hotel desk with a laptop open and notepads covered in scribbles. He watched tape until his eyes blurred recent Lecce matches, training clips, even fan compilations. He noted everything: their compact defensive shape, their positional discipline, their reluctance to commit bodies forward in transition. A team drilled well defensively, but hesitant when seizing the initiative.
And above all, inconsistent in attack.
The system in his head was ever-present. Sometimes subtle, a suggestion here, a stat overlay there. Other times, more insistent. It would highlight a heatmap, or display pass accuracy differentials when a player made a switch. Alex let it assist him. Not because he trusted it completely, but because he knew better now. You didn't win in modern football without using every edge you had.
By the weekend, the international break was halfway done. Most of the first team were away with their national sides or resting on approved leave. Only a skeleton crew remained at the training ground.
Still, Alex made it a point to show up.
The facilities were modest. Clean, professional, with a certain rustic charm. Nothing like Valdebebas or Milanello, but they didn't need luxury. They needed functionality. Efficiency.
He was introduced to everyone, the club chef, the medical staff, the analysts, the equipment managers. Faces flew by faster than names. He remembered smiles and stances, handshakes and tones of voice. The staff were warm, respectful. Many were younger than him. A few had coached while he was still in Milan. They knew who he was.
After all, he was Alex Walker. A face from Champions League nights. England's golden boy, once. A name on old FIFA covers, still found in kids' YouTube tributes.
He met the remaining players shortly after. Most greeted him with firm handshakes, some with curiosity in their eyes. A few were more candid.
"Mister Walker! You played for Inter! My father is a big fan," said Ylber Ramadani, the tough-tackling Albanian midfielder with a grin.
"We watched your game against Barcelona in 2012 in my house," laughed Falcone. "You destroyed them."
Alex smiled, genuinely touched. It wasn't hero worship, not really. It was respect. And respect went a long way in football.
He ran them through a light session. Nothing too taxing. Just enough to get a feel for their movements, their chemistry, their technical ceiling. The system hummed quietly in his thoughts, parsing angles and patterns, running simulations behind his gaze.
Then came the prompt:
[Recommended Tactical Shape: 3-4-2-1]
[Play Style: Direct Counterattack. Wing overload. Transitional emphasis.]
He absorbed it without flinching. It made sense.
He had wide threats in Banda and Almqvist. A sturdy forward in Krstovic who could hold up play and drag defenders. Midfielders like Ramadani and Blin who could press high and shield the backline. And a solid enough back three, with Baschirotto as the anchor.
They didn't need to play beautiful football.
They needed to play smart football.
By the time the day ended, as he stood beneath the fading Salento sky and watched the last of the players filter into the facility, Alex felt something settle in him.
He had taken his first breath as Lecce's manager.
And for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like a burden.
It felt like a beginning.