The Villa goalkeeper booted the ball long toward the halfway line.
Alejandro tracked the flight of the leather, stepping forward two paces to cover the central drop zone.
His left leg felt heavy, like wet cement setting inside his boot.
When he tried to push off his back foot to contest the aerial duel, his hips refused to lift.
The Villa central midfielder won the header cleanly, flicking it back out toward Harrison on the right flank.
Harrison didn’t look for a cheeky comment this time.
He took the ball on his chest, cushioned it onto the wet grass, and looked directly at Alejandro’s feet before making his decision.
Instead of trying to drive past the left wing, Harrison played a safe back-pass into his centre-back.
Alejandro stayed in his defensive shape, but his reaction time was drifting.
Two minutes later, Solihull won a throw-in near the technical area.
Alejandro jogged up to offer a short passing option along the touchline.
As the full-back hurled the ball toward his chest, Alejandro’s first touch bubbled high off his thigh.
He managed to hook it back with his heel before it crossed the white line, but the heavy touch gave Harrison enough time to close the space and bump him off balance.
The ball rolled out for a Villa throw.
“Keep your head up, red nine!” the Solihull coach barked from the sideline, though his voice lacked the sharp edge from ten minutes ago.
He was checking his wristwatch every thirty seconds now.
“Protect the ball!”
Alejandro bent his torso slightly, dragging his damp sleeve across his forehead.
His vision blurred around the edges for a split second, the gray sky merging with the muddy green of the pitch.
His body wasn’t just tired; the empty stomach was catching up to him, leaving a hollow, dull throb behind his eyes.
On the sideline, the assistant coach stepped back toward Davies.
“He’s out of gas, Sean.
The touch is gone.”
Davies didn’t answer.
He was watching the way Alejandro reset his position—not by sprinting back fifty yards, but by taking five calculated steps sideways to block the diagonal pass into the central pocket.
II
The clock on the main scoreboard hit the eighty-sixth minute.
Aston Villa held their 2-0 lead comfortably, contented to pass the ball across their back four to bleed the remaining time off the referee’s watch.
The Villa left-back played a lazy, lateral pass across the thirty-yard mark to his central defender.
The ball bobbled slightly over a patch of torn turf near the center circle.
It was a small mistake, the kind of loose pass that happens when a team is up by two goals in cold rain.
Alejandro didn’t have the legs to press the centre-back, but he saw the path of the ball before it reached its target.
He didn’t charge straight forward.
He angled his body toward the right-back position, baiting the Villa defender into taking a touch outward.
The centre-back took the bait, reaching out with his right instep to trap the rolling ball.
Alejandro lunged forward on his good leg, digging his studs deep into the mud.
He didn’t reach for the defender’s feet—he jabbed his left toe straight under the ball just as the defender brought his foot down.
The ball popped loose, spinning past the defender’s shoulder into the final third.
“Go!” roared the Solihull bench.
Alejandro sprinted into the open space, but after five yards, his hamstring tightened up like a stretched rubber band.
He couldn’t accelerate.
Harrison was recovering fast from the opposite side, tracking back on a dead run to cover the open lane.
Alejandro had two choices: force a long-range shot with his weaker right foot while off-balance, or trust the Solihull striker who had skied his previous pass into the netting.
As Harrison closed the distance, preparing to shoulder-charge him off the ball, Alejandro didn’t shoot.
He planted his left foot, using his fading momentum to drag the ball back behind his standing leg.
Harrison overcommitted, sliding three yards past him into the wet turf.
Without looking up, Alejandro chopped a sharp, low reverse pass back into the center of the box.
The Solihull striker didn’t have to control it.
The ball arrived perfectly in his stride, eight yards out from goal.
The striker swept it cleanly with his right foot, driving the shot low into the bottom corner past the diving goalkeeper’s fingers.
The net bulged with a sharp, heavy rustle.
2-1.
The Solihull players ran toward the striker to celebrate, but Alejandro didn’t join them.
He turned back toward the touchline, leaning forward with his hands resting on his thighs, his breath coming in ragged, steaming bursts.
III
The referee blew his whistle three times, signaling the end of the match thirty seconds after the restart.
Aston Villa U21 won the game 2-1, but the mood near the technical area was muted.
The Solihull players gathered their gear near the bench, clapping each other on the back before heading toward their team bus.
The striker walked past Alejandro, patting his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble slightly.
“Proper ball, mate.
You saved my morning.”
Alejandro gave a single, brief nod, but his eyes were fixed on the grass under his boots.
He unbuttoned the red mesh bib, pulling it over his head, and walked toward his heavy duffel bag near the green maintenance shed.
His toes were numb again, and his calf muscle twitched violently under his damp socks.
He picked up his bag, swinging the wet strap over his shoulder.
He had no idea what the protocol was now.
Was he supposed to head back to the security booth with Miller, or wait by the gates until ten o’clock?
“Jesse.”
Alejandro turned around slowly.
Sean Davies stood five yards away, his dugout coat zipped up to his chin, holding a small paper coffee cup from the annex.
His assistant was already walking back toward the main building with the tactical boards.
“Your left-side tracking was sloppy after twenty minutes,” Davies said, his voice level and dry.
“You let Harrison deliver a free cross into the box on your second defensive action.”
Alejandro adjusted the strap on his shoulder.
“My calf locked up on the first turn.”
Davies took a slow sip of his coffee.
“I don’t care about your calf.
If you play at this level, nobody cares if you spent the night on a bench in Curdworth or in a four-star hotel.”
Davies pulled his hands out of his coat pockets, looking past Alejandro toward the heavy iron gates at the perimeter fence.
“The bus service to Birmingham New Street leaves from the roundabout every forty minutes,” Davies said.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small plastic access fob attached to a blue lanyard, and tossed it toward Alejandro’s chest.
Alejandro caught the lanyard against his stomach.
“The academy canteen serves warm porridge at nine-thirty,” Davies said, turning his back to walk toward the main pavilion.
“Miller has your temporary clearance pass at the gate.
Be back on Pitch 3 by two o’clock for the tactical breakdown.”
Alejandro stood on the wet grass, his fingers wrapping around the cold plastic of the access fob.
Davies didn’t offer a contract.
He didn’t offer a slot in the U21 squad.
He didn’t even say whether Corrigan had called back from Lisbon.
The afternoon session was in four hours, his phone was dead, he had thirty pence in his pocket, and he had no place to sleep tonight.