Alejandro pressed the red icon and dragged it across the glass.
The screen flickered, instantly dimming to conserve the final drop of power.
He brought the receiver to his ear.
“Jesse?”
The voice wasn’t his father’s.
It was a woman’s, brisk and clipped, backed by the metallic clatter of printing machinery.
“Speaking,” Alejandro said.
His voice came out flat, dry at the back of his throat.
“This is transport dispatch from the regional desk,” she said without pausing for breath.
“We have a logistics note regarding your trial clearance for tonight.
Who signed off on your medical insurance release form from Solihull?”
Alejandro squinted at the grey cinderblock wall of the hallway.
“My coach gave me the standard waiver.”
“Standard doesn’t cover overnight boarding at Bodymoor,” she replied, her keyboard clicking rapidly in the background.
“We need a signature from a parent or legal guardian if you’re under nineteen and non-contracted.
If we don’t have it logged by—”
A tiny chime echoed from the phone speaker.
The screen went black.
The weight of the device in his palm turned cold as the battery gave out entirely.
Alejandro stood still in the corridor.
He tapped the glass twice with his knuckle.
Nothing happened.
The administration wing sat at the far end of the main facility, past a glass display case filled with silver academy trophies and framed youth shirts.
The door to the coordinator’s office was half-open.
Inside, a woman in a grey wool sweater was filing blue folders into a tall metal cabinet.
Alejandro knocked on the doorframe.
She turned around.
She looked to be in her late fifties, with short iron-grey hair and black-rimmed reading glasses hanging from a beaded cord around her neck.
“You’re the Solihull boy,” she said, looking at his muddy knees before he could state his name.
“Davies sent a note.”
Alejandro held out the paper slip the scout had given him.
“He told me to ask for Miss Vance.”
“That’s me,” she said, taking the slip and tossing it into a plastic tray on her desk without reading it.
She picked up a yellow mug of lukewarm tea and took a small sip.
“You look like you fell off a haulage truck.”
She reached for a clipboard loaded with a thick stack of printed forms.
“Name, home address, emergency contact,” she said, pushing a ballpoint pen across the laminate desk.
“And I need a copy of your photo ID or a provisional driver’s license before I hand over the room key.”
Alejandro picked up the pen.
His fingers felt stiff, his knuckles raw from the wind on Pitch 3.
He wrote Alejandro Jesse on the top line.
When his hand reached the Emergency Contact section, the tip of the pen hovered two millimeters above the paper.
“Something wrong with the ink?” Miss Vance asked.
She was leaning against the filing cabinet, checking a spreadsheet on her desktop monitor.
“My phone died,” Alejandro said.
“I don’t have my father’s current work extension written down.”
Miss Vance didn’t look up from her monitor.
“Write down his mobile.
We can pull the rest from the Solihull transfer file tomorrow morning if Davies decides to extend your stay.”
“I don’t have my ID either,” Alejandro added quiet, keeping his gaze fixed on the printed lines.
“It’s in my wallet at home.”
Miss Vance stopped typing.
The keys went silent for three seconds.
She turned her head, looking over the top of her reading glasses.
Her eyes lingered on his bare ankles, where the red scrape marks from his stiff boots were starting to turn a dark, bruised purple.
“You came up from London on a trial without a wallet?”
“I have thirty pence,” Alejandro said.
Miss Vance let out a dry, short breath through her nose.
It wasn’t a laugh, nor was it pity.
It was the sound of someone who dealt with dozens of broke teenagers passing through the academy gates every season.
“Vance is a common name in the West Midlands,” she said unexpectedly, picking up her mug again.
“If you were wondering whether I’m related to Marcus Vance from the board, I’m not.
He’s from Edgbaston.
My brother sells plumbing supplies in West Bromwich.”
She reached into her desk drawer, pulled out a brass key attached to a heavy red plastic tag, and set it on top of the clipboard.
“Room 4, Annex B.
Down the gravel path behind the laundry building,” she said.
“Dinner is served until seven in the staff canteen.
Use the side door.
Don’t go into the main lounge wearing those boots.”
The Annex room smelled of industrial floor polish and fresh bleach.
It contained a narrow single bed with a blue polyester duvet, a small wooden wardrobe, and an old oil-filled radiator hummed softly against the wall.
Alejandro dropped his duffel bag onto the linoleum floor.
He stripped off his mud-caked shirt, his damp shorts, and his sockless boots, leaving them in a wet pile near the door.
His skin was pale, goosebumps breaking out across his arms as the cold air hit his bare shoulders.
On the small bedside table sat a metal tray covered by a plastic dome.
Underneath was a hot plate of shepherd’s pie, a side of steamed peas, and two thick slices of white bread spread with real butter.
Beside the plate rested a clean bottle of still mineral water.
Alejandro sat on the edge of the bed.
He picked up the fork, his hand trembling slightly.
He took a bite of the meat and potatoes.
The food was warm, salty, and heavy.
He ate the entire plate in less than four minutes, barely chewing before swallowing, clearing the bread down to the last crumb of butter.
When he finished, his stomach tightened, a sharp knot forming in his core as his body processed its first real meal in nearly thirty hours.
He leaned back against the wall, his head resting against the cold painted plaster.
His forehead throbbed where the ball had struck him during the set-piece drill.
A dull, rhythmic ache pulsed behind his eyebrows.
The room was completely quiet except for the low hum of the radiator.
On the desk across the room, a black universal phone charger sat plugged into a wall socket, its green light glowing steady in the dark corner.
Miss Vance must have left it there.
Alejandro stood up, his bare feet sticking slightly to the clean floor.
He grabbed his dead phone from his bag, walked over to the desk, and plugged the frayed cable into the dock.
The screen remained black for ten seconds.
Then, a red battery outline appeared on the glass, pulsing slowly before displaying a single digit: 1%.
Alejandro leaned both palms flat against the wooden desk surface.
His mother was still in the ward in Lewisham with the radiator that didn’t work.
His father was waiting in Bermondsey, holding an emergency bank card that held just twelve pounds.
The phone screen flickered again.
The battery bar shifted to two percent, and the home screen lit up, immediately loading three new text notifications from the same London number.
Alejandro brought his thumb to the screen, tapped his father’s contact, and hit the green dial button.