The digital display on the hotel nightstand shifted to 7:42 AM.
Alejandro sat on the edge of the mattress, his feet wrapped in white cotton towels to keep the fresh zinc oxide tape from catching on the floorboards.
In London, it was 8:42 AM.
His phone rested flat on the laminate table beside a half-empty glass of tap water.
The screen stayed dark.
No incoming call from South London, no alert from the FA transfer portal.
He picked up the device and dialed David’s number.
The line didn’t ring.
Instead, a automated recorded operator’s voice rattled off a quick, metallic message: The network in the SE15 area is currently experiencing high traffic density.
Please try your call again later.
Alejandro tried a second time.
The same automated tone clicked through the receiver before dropping the signal completely.
He stood up, walked to the balcony door, and stepped out into the humid morning air.
Down in the hotel courtyard, Sean Davies was already sitting at a round iron table, drinking a small cup of black coffee while checking a stack of printed match rosters.
Harrison emerged from the side stairwell, carrying two blue sports bags over his shoulder, his eyes heavy with sleep.
By 8:15 AM Lisbon time, Alejandro was standing outside the hotel breakfast hall, his hands shoved deep into his tracksuit pockets.
His phone vibrated once.
It wasn’t a call.
It was a low-resolution photo sent via a messaging app from an unlisted Peckham landline number.
The image showed a printed white sheet resting on a scuffed wooden desk next to a plastic cup of instant coffee.
At the bottom of the page, a signature was written in thick blue ink—David Jesse—slanted heavily to the right, exactly as it appeared on Alejandro’s old Solihull registration card.
Beneath the photo, a short text message loaded line by line:
David: The scanner at the estate office has a jammed feed tray.
David: We had to take individual photos of the three pages.
David: Sending them directly to the FA intake server now.
Alejandro stared at the image.
The third page was slightly blurry near the margin, where a beam of morning sunlight had reflected off the glass desk cover.
He immediately forwarded all three images to Sean Davies’s personal email, along with the PDF clearance request form.
Across the lobby, Davies looked down at his phone.
He didn’t text back, but he immediately tapped the screen, brought the phone to his ear, and turned toward the quiet corridor leading to the staff office.
At 8:55 AM, a silver Mercedes sedan pulled into the hotel driveway, its tires crunching loudly against the white gravel.
James Corrigan stepped out of the rear passenger seat, wearing the same dark tracksuit from the day before, his hair uncombed and sticking up near his crown.
Behind him walked a tall Portuguese man in a tailored charcoal suit, holding a leather briefcase stamped with the official crest of Sporting Clube de Portugal.
Corrigan didn’t look at the palm trees or the courtyard.
He walked straight up the steps into the lobby, his boots clicking hard against the marble.
“Jesse,” Corrigan said, stopping three feet in front of Alejandro.
Alejandro stood straight.
“The photos were emailed to Davies twenty minutes ago.”
“I saw them,” Corrigan said flatly.
His voice was raspy, like he had spent the night breathing dry office air.
“The intake server in Wembley accepted the submission at eight-fifty UK time.
But page three has a glare over the witness clause.”
The man in the charcoal suit opened his briefcase, pulled out a tablet, and tapped the screen twice before holding it out toward Alejandro.
On the screen was the photo David had taken in Peckham.
The legal disclaimer regarding third-party representation was partially obscured by the white sun flare.
“The FA portal flags unreadable margins automatically,” the Sporting legal representative said in precise, cold English.
“It moves the file into manual review.
Manual review takes forty-eight hours.”
“We don’t have forty-eight hours,” Alejandro said.
“Correct,” Corrigan interjected, taking a unlit cigarette from behind his ear and turning it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Sporting’s registration deadline for the regional U19 tournament closes at twelve o’clock today.
If the clearance isn’t stamped in the FA ledger by eleven-thirty, they sign the kid from Braga.”
Alejandro looked at the clock above the reception desk.
9:08 AM in Lisbon.
10:08 AM in London.
The FA desk in Wembley had been open for eight minutes.
“Is my father still at the estate office?” Corrigan asked, his narrow eyes tracking Alejandro’s face.
“I don’t know,” Alejandro said.
“The line in Peckham was down.”
Corrigan reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy metal fob attached to a black key, and tossed it onto the glass coffee table between them.
“Davies is driving you back to Pitch 4 in five minutes,” Corrigan said, his tone completely stripped of emotion.
“You’re doing the light passing drills with the squad.
If the manual review flag isn’t cleared by ten-thirty, you pack your bag and catch the two o’clock flight back to Luton.”
“What about Solihull?” Alejandro asked.
“Solihull got their eighteen hundred quid development fee from Villa’s youth fund twenty minutes ago,” Corrigan said coldly.
“They withdrew their formal objection.
Now it’s just a fight between a blurry JPEG and a bureaucrat in Wembley who wants to go for a tea break.”
Corrigan turned his back, walking toward the hotel bar to order an espresso.
Harrison, who had been sitting on the leather sofa nearby, stood up and picked up his kit bag.
He walked past Alejandro, tapping him lightly on the shoulder with his elbow.
“Bring your running shoes,” Harrison muttered quietly.
“Davies isn’t cutting anyone slack today.”
Alejandro pulled his phone back out and sent one final message to his father:
Alejandro: Page 3 needs a clean scan without light glare.
Alejandro: Manual review will block it.
Alejandro: They need it before 10:30.
He walked out the glass doors toward the transport van waiting in the driveway.
The screen in his palm stayed silent, the single sent tick remaining motionless as the engine turned over and the vehicle pulled out onto the main road toward the training grounds.