Winds of Change
Coach Marchetti had the look of a mountain bandit about him.
That unkempt beard alone was enough to inspire a quiet dread, and with a face already intimidating enough, compounded by the heavy bulk of a man who had put on considerable weight, even meeting his eyes felt like it might turn your knees to water.
In complete contrast to that impression, Marchetti was handling his introductory press conference with surprising ease.
He had been answering the reporters' questions with that same impassive face when one of them finally raised the issue everyone had been waiting for—and his reaction shifted.
"There's talk of a serious problem inside Roma's dressing room right now. As manager, do you intend to make resolving that your top priority?"
"I consider it an unconfirmed rumor, but let's take it at face value for a moment. Roma is a strong side, packed with quality players. Players like that have strong egos, and strong egos naturally collide. That's a natural phenomenon. I see it as the process of Roma becoming tighter—and stronger."
"Did you watch any of Roma's matches before taking the job?"
"I did."
"Communication among the players seems poor. What's your take on that?"
"You know why communication breaks down? Because opinions clash. And why do opinions clash? Because the passion is overflowing. Passion born of competitive fire. I think very highly of that."
With an interview no one had expected, he had wrapped one of the most damaging stories currently hanging over Roma in a completely different package.
The reporter, who had never imagined a man of Marchetti's famously hot-blooded temperament would give answers like that, stared at him with open surprise.
"How do you plan to train the players?"
"I'll handle that starting tomorrow. One thing I can tell you for certain—when it comes to training, I hold a very high standard."
"Have you spoken with the players yet?"
"I'll talk with them at training tomorrow. I already know the squad well enough. Two or three of the players currently at Roma—I went up against them when I was still playing."
"You mean Nathan and Ricci?"
"Yes. I faced them a couple of times when they were still wet behind the ears. Nathan when he was at Fiorentina, and Ricci, of course, when I was up against Roma. Good players. The rest of them, too."
"And by the rest of them, who do you mean?"
"Novak, Nwosu, Perez, Mackenzie… Yohan Lee… they're all outstanding. Ah—Yohan Lee has a lot of problems right now. I think those issues need to be fixed as soon as possible."
Everyone in the press room went still.
It sounded as though he were taking a shot at Yohan.
Marchetti took one look at their faces, chuckled, and continued.
"Judging by those expressions, you all think I'm about to talk about Lee's character or his ability. That's not it. He's been bouncing from position to position, and it's starting to throw him off his game."
He wasn't wrong. Yohan's form of late had been inconsistent.
Winger, central midfielder, forward—and at times even dropping into the defensive midfield role in place of Ricci. Shuttling from position to position like that, forced to adapt his play each time, even a player overflowing with talent was bound to struggle to settle.
Inconsistent or not, he still delivered more than his share every match—but the flashes of brilliance, the moments that made him stand out the way he had last season, had grown rare.
"Are you criticizing Coach Kruger for moving Lee around so many positions?"
"That was never my intention. I respect Coach Kruger. If you assign meaning to something said without intent, intent appears. I can't stand that sort of thing."
"…I see."
"Anyway, Lee is a talented player. Making that talent shine even brighter is my job—and I'll do it. All right, let's wrap this press conference here. The rest can wait for the pre-match conference before the next game."
Bang!
Marchetti slammed both hands down on the table as he rose, then looked around at the unfazed reporters and tossed out a joke.
"You're not even startled anymore. I may have to change my approach."
It was a press conference that somehow managed to feel both tense and light. The next day, Marchetti began training with the players.
"That's it… that's it! Huff…!"
During sprints he would inexplicably run alongside the players near the touchline, then, when his stamina gave out, heave a heavy sigh…
"Play it through! Feed it wide! I'm right on you! Yes! That's it!"
During the mini-games he ran with them, assessing individual ability and training attitude up close. When the session was over, Marchetti looked over the players one by one as they worked through their recovery stretches and spoke.
"Nothing like the mongrel press has been barking about."
Marchetti knew that Ricci had gathered the players before he arrived.
Not with certainty—he had simply sensed it from the atmosphere.
These kids already had a meeting, didn't they.
"This is what's wrong with sports media. They rush to report every negative story and couldn't care less about the positive ones. Internally, things look patched up—but outside is a different story. The press is going to keep trying to shake us. So tomorrow, whatever crap those bastards pull, show them it doesn't work. Make them see it with their own two eyes. Understood?"
Already carrying extra weight, and having thrown himself into the training session on top of it, Marchetti's face was flushed a deep red, as if it might burst. He gathered the entire squad and poured his time into rallying them.
Then came the match the following day.
Unlike the stifled performances under Kruger's system, Roma moved with remarkable cohesion. There was no organizational breakdown. Sharp judgment, quick passing, attacks built through the center—they produced one fine sequence after another.
Ricci's gathering of the players had played its part, but so had Marchetti's success in aiming the drawn bowstring of the dressing room squarely at the media.
It also helped that the opposition was a weaker side set up in a 4-4-2, which opened space for Yohan, deployed in the central attacking midfield role of a 4-2-3-1.
Thwack!
—Yeeeeaaaaaahhh!!!
The result: three goals inside the first twenty-five minutes.
Yohan was involved in all three—the catalyst, the assist, the finish—and the tentative form he had shown under Kruger vanished without a trace.
Fundamentally, Yohan played like an attacking midfielder.
But when the press came hard, he dropped a touch deeper to form a midfield three with Ricci and Solomon—or pushed higher to create a two-striker shape.
The position seemed to shift, but it was really just a slight adjustment of location; the role itself barely changed.
Marchetti trusted Yohan's judgment and did not load him with too many responsibilities. He actively encouraged switching with players whose high work rates could support him, and so long as Yohan fulfilled the basic duties of an attacking midfielder, he left him free to act.
"Run! Andre! I said run!! Run!! Gio, support him! Don't let him get isolated! Push up the flank!! Press the fullback! Yes! That's it!"
Marchetti drove the players on with relentless passion throughout the match.
"Miguel!! You've pushed up too far! Drop back!! Drop back and do what you want from there!!"
Even so, he never interfered excessively.
He only corrected the moments when a position looked seriously out of place, granting the players a high degree of autonomy.
That approach suited Roma perfectly—a side full of long-serving players with excellent teamwork, and experienced heads whose judgment was sound.
Put another way, it also meant the factional crisis had been severe enough to shake that teamwork and judgment to their foundations.
Thwack!
"Uwaaaah!!"
In the second half, Ricci scored an additional goal and poured out the emotion welling up inside him. Watching the teammates swarm toward him, Marchetti's mouth curled into a one-sided grin.
Then he substituted Yohan—who had been running himself ragged in every match, and today was no different, moving tirelessly until his stamina was nearly gone.
"There will be a substitution. Number 39, Yohan Lee, coming off…"
Following the instruction, Yohan jogged lightly toward the fourth official's line to a standing ovation, clapped hands with the player coming on, and turned to greet Marchetti as well.
Smack!
"Ow!?"
Marchetti's massive hand cracked across the back of Yohan's head.
He had meant it as a congratulatory tap—but riding the high of the thrashing, he had completely lost control of his strength and hit far too hard.
Yohan flinched hard, startled.
Seeing that, Marchetti bared his bright white teeth, stepped in, and slung an arm around his shoulder.
"Come here. Does it hurt?"
"No… I'm fine."
"You know that was an accident, right?"
"I know."
"Good. You played well today. Go rest over there."
"Yes, sir…"
The brief, comic interlude drew peals of laughter from the nearby stands. Roma went on to add one more goal, sealed a 5–0 thrashing, and headed home in high spirits.
"Gio? Of course he was excellent. But Gio knows it too—performances like this don't come from one man alone. We didn't win on individual brilliance. We won as a team. As long as I'm here, Roma will move as one team. When we win like today, we win as a team. And if we lose, we lose as a team."
Having delivered a major result in his managerial debut, Marchetti gave an interview that emphasized the collective effort—and scratched exactly the itch the fans had been feeling.
And so, less than a year later, Roma found itself once again facing the winds of change.
They currently sat eleventh. With the season nearly over, how far they could climb was entirely up to the players.
And Yohan, returning to the convent on a breeze that felt strangely refreshing for reasons he couldn't name, was met by Sister Caterina.
"Yohan. You have a visitor."
"A visitor?"
"Mm-hmm. She's in your room—go on in."
At her words, he tilted his head and stepped into his room.
Creeeak…
The well-oiled door swung open smoothly, revealing the small, dim space beyond.
A place that felt comforting just to be in. Noticing the bed in the corner bulging upward, Yohan flipped on the light.
Click.
What…?
Someone was asleep under the covers, pulled all the way up over their head.
The room smelled strongly of his own shampoo—the visitor must have showered. From beneath the blanket, a lock of light brown hair spilled out like something from a ghost story.
Yohan's eyes went wide. He approached the bed and carefully drew back the covers.
"Hailey?"
Hailey, who should have been in America, was right here.
And she was out cold, mouth hanging wide open.