I The clock on the big screen inside Vallecas showed 88:14.
On the touchline, Iñigo Pérez didn’t yell.
He stood with his hands buried in his black jacket, staring right through Alejandro as the ball skipped out of bounds for a throw-in.
“One touch, Jesse!” the assistant coach roared from behind him.
“Pass the fucking ball!”
Alejandro ignored him.
His socks were pushed down to his ankles, shin guards shifted sideways, skin beneath burning from a late slide tackle five minutes prior.
Rayo Vallecano was down 1-0 against Real Sociedad, playing with ten men after Ciss picked up a second yellow.
If they lost this, Alejandro’s three-match trial period on the first-team bench was over.
Back to the B-team.
Back to playing on dry, artificial turf in front of eighty parents and two stray cats.
The throw came long.
Alejandro brought it down on his chest, the leather damp from the Madrid drizzle.
His marker, Hamari Traoré, didn’t bite.
He jockeyed, giving him two yards.
Alejandro could practically hear his old Hale End reports echoing in his ears: Prefers to cut inside on his right foot.
Selfish.
Doesn’t track back.
Alejandro shifted his weight right.
Traoré planted his boots.
Instead of cutting, Alejandro knocked the ball straight down the line with his left—a heavy, reckless touch that pushed it inches from the chalk.
He sprinted.
Traoré clipped his shoulder, hard enough to rattle his teeth, but Alejandro kept his balance, leaning into the contact.
He reached the endline.
The cross was on.
Camello was shouting at the back post, completely unmarked.
Alejandro looked up, saw the pass, felt the defender recovering behind him—and kicked the ball straight into Traoré’s shins for a throw-in.
A collective groan rippled through the home stand.
Camello threw his hands up, spitting furiously toward the turf.
On the bench, Pérez turned his back, already motioning for a substitute.
Alejandro stood over the ball, breathing heavy, blood leaking through the white cotton of his left sock.
Two years before that.
II The carpet in the London Colney office smelled like wet wool and stale lemon air freshener.
David Jesse sat on the edge of the leather sofa, holding a lukewarm mug of instant coffee he hadn’t touched.
His right leg was extended straight out—the knee locked forever after three surgeries from his days at Ebbsfleet United.
Across the desk, the Head of Academy Development didn’t look angry.
That was the worst part.
He looked bored.
“It’s not a question of talent, David,” the man said, tapping a red pen against a thick paper folder labeled JESSE, A.
– U16.
“Technically, he’s in the upper percentile.
His ball retention under pressure is fine.
His delivery from set pieces is fine.”
“He scored fourteen goals from the wing this season,” David said.
His voice was too quiet, carrying the raspy drag of a man who worked forty hours a week at a Vauxhall dealership.
“Fourteen.”
“And we conceded nine goals from transitions originating on his flank,” the director replied, opening the folder.
“When he loses the ball, he stops.
He watches.
At Hale End, we don’t produce luxury players anymore.
The first team doesn’t use them.”
Alejandro sat in the corner chair, staring at his own black Nike boots.
He didn’t defend himself.
He didn’t remind them that two weeks ago he’d set up the winner against Tottenham.
“We won’t be offering a scholarship contract for next season,” the director said, closing the file with a soft, final thud.
“We can arrange trials in League Two.
AFC Wimbledon expressed mild interest.”
David stood up, his bad knee clicking loudly in the quiet room.
“We’re not going to Wimbledon.”
“David—”
“Come on, Ale,” his father said, walking out without shaking hands.
Outside, the November rain was falling sideways over the North London training pitches.
They walked in silence toward the secondhand Ford Focus parked near the gate.
Alejandro unzipped his kit bag, pulled out his worn Arsenal rain jacket, and dropped it into an industrial wheelie bin by the security booth.
He lengthened his stride, forcing his father to quicken his pace to keep up.
As they reached the curb, Alejandro kicked a loose gravel rock into the chain-link fence with a sharp, heavy snap.
David unlocked the car, the central locking making a rusted whining noise.
“Your mother’s brother called from Seville last night,” he said, staring through the blurred windshield.
“He knows a scout who covers the lower tiers in Madrid.”
Alejandro looked back at the gleaming glass building of the academy, pressing his jaw tight until his teeth ached.
III The smell of deep-fried calamari and stale beer hung heavy in the air of the small apartment in Vallecas.
On the couch, Leo was glued to his monitor, headset crushed over his messy curls, thumbing his controller furiously.
“Go left, you idiot!
He’s flanking!” he yelled in rapid Spanish, completely ignoring Alejandro walking through the front door.
“Did you take the wet laundry out?” Alejandro asked, dropping his duffel bag on the floor.
“Marcus left a contract draft on the table,” Leo muttered, not turning around.
“Don’t sign anything.
He bought cheap ham again.”
Alejandro picked up the paper from the kitchen counter.
Marcus Vance, a 34-year-old former car salesman turned low-tier FIFA agent, had left his scribbled notes next to a half-eaten empanada.
Rayo Vallecano Senior Squad – Youth Extension Term Sheet
Base Salary: €1,800 / month
Appearance Bonus: €250 (minimum 20 mins)
Release Clause: €2,000,000
It was pocket change compared to what his former teammates at Arsenal were earning on their first professional deals back in England.
But it was rent.
It was train tickets back to London once a month.
It was survival.
The front door clicked open, and Marcus walked in, reeking of cheap cologne and tobacco.
He was wearing an ill-fitting suit, furiously scrolling through his phone.
“Pérez isn’t starting you on Sunday,” Marcus blurted out, skipping any greeting.
He grabbed a glass from the sink, rinsed it with tap water, and filled it.
“I talked to the press officer.
You’re on the bench again.”
“I hit the post in training today,” Alejandro said, leaning against the counter.
“Nobody cares about training, kid.
They care that you dropped back to cover the full-back exactly zero times during Tuesday’s eleven-against-eleven,” Marcus replied, taking a sip.
He stopped, looking at Alejandro’s leg.
“Why are you limping?”
“It’s fine.”
“It better be.
I’ve got two scouts sitting in the West Stand on Sunday.
One from Getafe, one from Betis.” Marcus tapped the contract on the table.
“You perform, we push for three grand a month.
You sit on your ass, you sign for eighteen hundred and like it.”
Alejandro’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
A notification popped up from a WhatsApp number with a UK country code—one he hadn’t saved, but recognized instantly.
[Unknown]: Saw you made the bench against Sociedad.
Don’t waste your time in Spain, mate.
The gaffer asked about you yesterday.
Alejandro stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the message.
Before he could type a reply, Marcus knocked his knuckles on the table.
“Sign the sheet, Ale.
Or don’t,” Marcus said, turning toward the door.
“But if you lose your spot on Sunday, Betis won’t even pay for your train ticket.”