The first whistle cut through the damp air like a blade.
A Villa midfielder lined up twenty-five yards out, adjusting the ball on a patch of dry turf.
Alejandro shuffled sideways in the four-man wall.
His wet leather studs slipped three inches on the churned mud, forcing him to catch his balance with his right arm.
Without socks, the stiff leather heel of his boot scraped directly against his bare skin with every step.
“Tighter on the left!” the Villa goalkeeper shouted from his line.
“Don’t leave the gap!”
Harrison, standing next to Alejandro in the wall, reached out and grabbed Alejandro’s arm.
He dragged him half a yard to the left, wedging their shoulders together.
Harrison’s shoulder was solid and dry.
Alejandro’s shirt was cold and heavy with rain.
“Stay down until he plants his foot,” Harrison muttered, looking straight ahead.
His tone was flat, completely stripped of the mock sharpness from the morning match.
“If you jump early, he chips it right over your head.”
The taker took three measured steps back.
Alejandro’s hamstrings felt like overstretched ropes.
He took a short, shallow breath, keeping his hands locked together low over his waist.
The ball left the taker’s boot with a sharp, hollow crack.
It came fast, dipping low toward the left side of the wall—right at Alejandro’s knee height.
Alejandro braced to block it, but his reaction was half a second too slow.
His left knee buckled under his body weight as he tried to shift his hips.
The ball struck the outside of his shin, deflected off his bare ankle bone with a dull thud, and rolled tamely out for a corner.
A sharp, stabbing heat flared up Alejandro’s calf.
He bit his tongue, keeping his eyes locked on the grass.
Over by the tripod, the scout in the black windbreaker didn’t look up immediately.
He clicked his pen once.
He wrote a short note in the margin of his clipboard, his face completely expressionless behind his high collar.
“Reset!” Davies yelled from the sideline.
His voice carried across the empty pitch.
“Same position.
Second ball.”
The team set up again.
Alejandro’s right ankle throbbed inside the wet boot.
He could feel the leather biting directly into the raw flesh above his heel.
This time, the taker varied his approach angle, stepping wide to curl the ball toward the far top corner.
Alejandro didn’t watch the taker’s eyes.
He watched the hips.
He remembered how Harrison had opened his body during the morning match right before sweeping a cross into the box.
The taker’s left plant-foot struck the turf two inches deeper than before.
The ball was going high.
Alejandro didn’t jump with his whole body.
He knew his legs wouldn’t lift him six inches off the ground without cramping completely.
Instead, he pushed off his good right leg, extending his torso upward and throwing his head into the line of the flight.
The heavy, wet leather ball smashed directly into his forehead.
A bright flash of white light burst behind his eyelids.
The impact knocked his head back, sending a sharp shockwave down his neck.
The ball bounded fifty yards back toward the halfway line, clearing the defensive zone entirely.
Alejandro landed heavily on his heels.
The ground wobbled beneath his feet for two seconds, the green pitch tilting sideways before snapping back into place.
He wiped his brow with the back of his mud-stained wrist.
A red mark burned across his forehead, but the ball was gone.
Harrison clapped his hands together twice, the sound sharp in the quiet afternoon air.
“Good header, mate,” Harrison said softly, walking past him to mark his man for the throw-in.
He didn’t offer a high-five, but he didn’t look away either.
On the sideline, Davies noted the distance of the clearance.
He didn’t offer praise.
He simply flipped a page on his tactical board and waved the players into a central huddle.
By 3:15 PM, the session came to an end.
The Villa players immediately turned toward the main pavilion, chatting about shower water temperature and weekend plans.
Alejandro stayed behind on the touchline, bending down to unlace his right boot.
His hands were shaking slightly from cold and low blood sugar.
“Jesse.”
Davies walked over, holding the magnetic tactical board under his arm.
The scout in the black windbreaker followed two paces behind, his clipboard tucked neatly into his zipped jacket.
Alejandro stood up, keeping his foot resting on top of his unlaced boot.
“Your defensive positioning on the third set-piece was late,” Davies said.
“You were relying on Harrison to pull you into line.”
Alejandro kept his shoulders level.
“I was watching the taker’s stance.”
“I don’t care what you were watching,” Davies replied smoothly.
“If you’re half a yard out of line, the wall is useless.”
The scout stepped forward slightly.
He was a small man with graying hair and sharp, narrow eyes that moved constantly between Alejandro’s face and his unlaced boots.
“Corrigan wants the full report by five o’clock,” the scout said.
His voice was quiet, lacking the booming authority of Davies.
“He’s in Lisbon until tomorrow morning.”
Alejandro looked at the scout.
“Is there a decision?”
The scout didn’t answer directly.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small white paper slip with a printed telephone number and a five-digit extension.
“Take your gear to the main office near the medical bay,” the scout said, handing the slip to Alejandro.
“Ask for Miss Vance.
Tell her you need the temporary clearance form for the evening boarding house.”
Davies turned his back, walking away toward the equipment shed without another word.
Alejandro looked down at the slip of paper.
A boarding house meant a bed for the night.
It meant a hot shower and a meal voucher for the academy kitchen.
It wasn’t a contract.
It was twelve hours of borrowed time.
Alejandro walked back into the lower corridor, his damp boots clicking against the tiles.
He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out his phone.
The screen illuminated instantly, the small battery bar hovering at a dangerous three percent.
The device began to vibrate in his palm.
A single call was coming through.
The screen didn’t show his father’s name.
It didn’t show the Bermondsey home number or the unlisted London line from the hospital clinic.
The display showed a local Birmingham area code, followed by an unknown eight-digit number.
Alejandro’s thumb hovered over the green icon.
If he answered, the call would drain the remaining three percent within thirty seconds.
He would have no way to contact the medical clinic or call his father back if the hospital required his final consent.
If he let it ring, the caller might never dial again.
The phone buzzed a third time, the motor whining weakly as the battery drained toward zero.
Alejandro slid his thumb across the glass.