The door swung wide, banging against the rubber stop.
Harrison stood in the entryway wearing a mud-spattered rain jacket over his training kit.
His right sock had slipped down around his ankle, exposing a red tape wrap over his Achilles.
He held a half-eaten sports bar in his left hand, the foil wrapper rustling loudly in the quiet equipment room.
He stopped when he saw Alejandro sitting on the bench.
“Kit manager in back?” Harrison asked, tossing a pair of muddy studs onto the floor near the plastic boot tub.
“Taking inventory,” Alejandro said without looking up.
Harrison chewed slowly, eyeing the navy blue Villa travel bag resting beside Alejandro’s split-seamed trainers.
“You’re on the two o’clock to Birmingham Airport.”
Alejandro adjusted the zipper pull on the bag.
“Yeah.”
Harrison dragged a wooden crate over with his heel and sat down three feet away.
He wiped a streak of damp turf off his cheekbone with the back of his hand.
“Davies was talking to the U18 analyst near the canteen,” Harrison said, tossing the energy bar wrapper into a wire bin.
“Said you signed the 4B waiver.”
Alejandro’s shoulder twitched slightly.
“He needed it before Corrigan met the board.”
Harrison let out a short, puffing exhale that smelled of artificial banana flavoring.
“My uncle’s an agent for a couple of lads at West Brom.
He told me 4B means Villa don’t owe your local side a penny if you sign a scholar deal abroad.
Solihull won’t like that.”
“My dad didn’t like it either,” Alejandro said.
Harrison looked at Alejandro’s right shoe, where the black leather had split completely open along the outer seam.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small roll of black electrical tape, and tossed it onto the bench between them.
“Wrap it tight before you board,” Harrison said, standing up.
“Lisbon’s turf is soft this time of year.
If water gets in through the side, your foot slides around in the boot.”
Alejandro picked up the tape.
“Thanks.”
Harrison walked toward the back counter, his studs clicking on the concrete floor.
“Good luck with Corrigan.
Don’t let him put you in the B-team dorms near the docks.
The heaters there haven’t worked since October.”
By 1:15 PM, Annex B was completely empty.
Alejandro stood in the middle of the small bedroom, his travel bag slung over his left shoulder.
He had changed into the official navy tracksuit.
The fabric was stiff, smelling of fresh polyester and factory dye, the white iron-on number 34 resting over his left breast.
He unrolled the black tape Harrison had given him and wound it four times around the toe of his right shoe, pulling it taut until the split seam closed tight.
His phone sat on the narrow desk.
The battery screen read 42%.
He picked it up, his thumb resting over his father’s number in the recent call log.
The time was 1:28 PM.
He opened a text draft, typed four words, and deleted them.
He typed: I’m getting on the bus now.
He stared at the black characters on the lit screen.
Back in South London, Lewisham NHS Hospital was four miles from the train station.
If he left Annex B right now, dropped his travel bag at the gate, and ran to the main road, he could catch the 1:45 local bus to New Street Station.
He could be in London by four o’clock.
He could walk into the assessment corridor, sit on the linoleum floor beside his mother’s gurney, and hand his father the sixty pounds he had tucked into his sock from his last Sunday league match fee.
He looked down at the official Villa crest on his chest.
The text remained unsent.
He cleared the box, locked the screen, and shoved the device into his tracksuit pocket.
The minibus was idling behind the main academy reception at 1:45 PM.
Exhaust fumes rose in gray plumes against the freezing drizzle.
A silver luggage trailer was hooked to the rear bumper, its lock rattling rhythmically with the engine’s vibration.
Sean Davies stood near the side door, holding a clipboard protected by a clear plastic sleeve.
He was checking off names as three other U21 players loaded their hard-shell suitcases into the trailer.
Alejandro walked up the asphalt path, his bag hanging low at his hip.
Davies glanced up, his eyes moving over Alejandro’s navy tracksuit before landing on the black electrical tape wrapped around his shoe.
“Passport?” Davies asked, his pen hovering over the paper.
Alejandro pulled his passport from his jacket pocket and handed it over.
Davies flipped to the photo page, checked the expiration date, and handed it back without a word.
He made a neat tick mark beside Alejandro’s name on the roster sheet.
“Row three, right side,” Davies said, pointing toward the dark tinted windows of the minibus.
“Corrigan’s driver meets us at Humberto Delgado Airport at six Portuguese time.
Have your documentation ready in your hand when we land.”
Alejandro climbed the narrow folding steps into the bus.
The air inside smelled of stale air conditioning, dry heat, and cheap leather conditioner.
Two boys from the U18 squad were sitting near the front, their heads bent over a shared tablet screen showing video clips of Sporting Lisbon’s U19 fullback line.
They were discussing defensive overlaps in quiet, fast tones.
Alejandro moved past them and took a seat in row three by the window.
He stowed his travel bag under the seat in front of him.
His knee brushed against the hard plastic casing of the seatback.
He pulled his phone out again.
1:52 PM.
A new notification flashed across the top bar: 1 New Text Message — Dad.
Alejandro’s finger hovered over the screen for two seconds before he tapped the notification open.
Your mother woke up.
They gave her a cup of tea.
Don’t lose your luggage in the airport.
No mention of Section 4B.
No mention of the sixty pounds for the haulage van.
Just three short sentences sent from an old keypad phone with a sticky zero button.
Alejandro looked out the tinted window.
Outside, Miss Vance was stepping out of the reception door, carrying a blue plastic sack of rubbish toward the big metal dumpster near Pitch 3.
Rain hit the glass beside his head, the drops grouping together and sliding down the outer pane in thick, jagged lines.
The driver climbed into the front seat, adjusted the side mirrors, and pulled the heavy gear lever into drive.
The minibus jerked forward, the silver trailer clanking loudly behind them as they turned onto the main road toward the motorway.
The tea.
That was the part that stuck.
Not the corridor, not the gurney — his father had bothered to mention what she drank.
Alejandro closed his eyes as the bus picked up speed on the motorway, the trailer rattling behind them, and did not open them again until the driver announced the airport turnoff forty minutes later.