The blue glow of the smartphone lit up the dark living room long after Marcus had slammed the door.
Alejandro stared at the UK country code.
+44 7700…
He tapped the screen, scrolling up to see if there was any prior chat history.
Nothing.
Just the single message sitting under the notification timestamp.
He typed out a reply: Who is this?
Before he could press send, the lock screen flickered and died.
“Hey,” Alejandro called out toward the sofa, where the rhythmic clicking of Leo’s controller hadn’t slowed down once.
“You got a Lightning cable?”
“In the kitchen drawer,” Leo muttered, eyes fixed on his monitor.
“Under the takeaway menus.”
Alejandro pulled a white cord from the messy drawer.
The casing near the neck was split, exposing inner wires, but after propping the connector against an empty mug, the screen finally gave a faint buzz and booted back up.
He pulled out a dog-eared notebook from his bag—a relic from his Hale End days filled with half-erased contact numbers.
Pages were stained with dried energy drink.
He scanned down the names: academy coaches, physios, former U16 teammates now playing for Championship reserves.
“Gaffer” could mean anyone.
A youth coach checking in, or a scout from a club back home still keeping tabs on British kids playing abroad.
He looked back at the screen.
No new notification popped up.
Down in the courtyard three floors below, a scooter backfired, the sharp crack echoing off the narrow concrete walls of Vallecas.
II
Thursday morning’s tactical drill at the Rayo training ground was brutal.
Rain had turned the outer edges of the pitch into slick grease, and the air smelled heavily of wet dirt and fertilizer.
Iñigo Pérez stood near the center circle, blowing his whistle with short, impatient blasts.
“Shift left, Ale!
Shift!” Pérez barked, shielding his eyes from the drizzle with a laminated clipboard.
“Stop wandering!”
Alejandro adjusted his run, digging his studs into the turf.
The ball came to him from midfield—a low, crisp pass from Oscar Valentín.
Alejandro controlled it with his right instep.
Instead of laying it off to the overlapping left-back, he saw a gap between the two central defenders.
He took an extra touch inside and unleashed a strike.
The ball curled off his laces, clipped the underside of the crossbar, and bounced inside the net.
A clean goal.
Alejandro slowed to a jog, wiping rain off his chin, waiting for a reaction.
Pérez blew his whistle three times, sharp and angry.
He didn’t point back to the center circle.
He marched straight over, his tracksuit bottoms dripping wet.
“Who asked you to shoot?” Pérez said, stopping a foot away.
“The gap was open—”
“Chavarría was completely clear on the overlap!” Pérez cut him off, pointing a muddy thumb toward the touchline.
“Against Getafe, you lose that ball inside, we get hit on the counter before you even finish turning around.
Pass the ball, Ale.
This isn’t your backyard.”
Pérez turned toward the bench.
“B-team rotation!
Ale, put on the bib.”
Alejandro pulled the yellow pinnie over his head.
He stepped off the tactical grid, standing near the touchline as the starting eleven lined up without him.
His left ankle throbbed—a dull ache right where Traoré had caught him on Sunday.
He reached down to adjust his shin guard, but the velcro was full of wet grass and refused to stick.
III
By Friday afternoon, the noise inside the small apartment was suffocating.
Alejandro sat at the kitchen counter, an unopened soda can cold against his palm, staring down at the extension sheet Marcus had left behind.
Base Salary: €1,800 / month.
Appearance Bonus: €250 (minimum 20 mins).
Eighteen hundred euros.
After taxes, rent, and sending a portion back to London for his father’s medical bills, there would barely be enough left to replace his worn-out boots.
The front door kicked open.
Marcus walked in, dragging a dripping umbrella across the linoleum.
“Getafe pulled their scout,” Marcus said, tossing his keys into a metal bowl on the counter.
Alejandro’s grip tightened, the aluminum can denting under his thumb with a sharp pop.
“What?”
“Their analyst broke his leg playing padel.
They aren’t sending anyone,” Marcus sneered, shoving his hands into his suit pockets.
“And Betis is only sending a guy to look at Rayo’s starting right-back.
But I got a call from London an hour ago.”
Alejandro looked up.
“Real Valladolid has a scout in the box tomorrow,” Marcus said, leaning over the counter.
“They want a cheap winger.
If you get on that pitch for even fifteen minutes and do something, we push Rayo to three grand a month.
If you sit on your ass, you sign the eighteen hundred sheet by Sunday night, or Rayo cuts you.”
“Valladolid is fighting relegation,” Alejandro said.
“Valladolid is in La Liga, kid!” Marcus snapped.
“You don’t get to be picky.” He turned on his heel, leaving the front door unlatched as he left.
Alejandro picked up his phone.
His thumb slipped twice over the slick screen before he managed to open WhatsApp.
The unknown UK number was still sitting there: The gaffer asked about you yesterday.
He hit call.
It rang three times before cutting straight to a generic British automated voice: “The mobile phone you are calling is currently turned off…”
He hung up without leaving a message.
That night, Alejandro lay on his narrow twin bed, staring up at the water stain on the ceiling, the quiet hum of Madrid traffic filtering through the glass.
At 2:15 AM, his phone vibrated against the nightstand—a single, sharp buzz.
Alejandro reached out in the dark and flipped it over.
[Unknown]: He’s watching the Rayo game tomorrow.
Don’t sign anything yet.