The tunnel smelled like damp concrete and deep-heat ointment.
Marcus rounded the wall, his leather shoes squeaking sharply on the wet floor.
He held a blue plastic folder under his arm, a half-eaten energy bar dangling from his mouth.
“Valladolid’s guy left at the 85th minute,” Marcus blurted out, chewing as he spoke.
“He didn’t even wait for the final whistle.
Said you looked gassed after seventy minutes.”
Alejandro kept his back against the wall, his right hand jammed deep into the pocket of his shorts, pressing the hard paper card flat against his thigh.
“I played seventy-five minutes on the wing.”
“Nobody cares,” Marcus sneered, grabbing the folder and slapping it against Alejandro’s chest.
“Betis didn’t stay either.
The only offer on the table is Rayo’s extension.
Eighteen hundred a month.
Take-it-or-leave-it by 8:00 PM Sunday.”
Alejandro didn’t take the folder.
He dropped his hands to his side, his thumb catching on the seam of his muddy shorts to keep the pocket closed.
“I need until Monday.”
Marcus stopped.
His eyes narrowed, scanning Alejandro’s face, then dropping down to his rain-soaked kit.
“What’s in your hand?” Marcus asked, stepping closer.
The smell of cheap tobacco and damp wool washed over Alejandro.
“Nothing,” Alejandro said, lifting both palms flat, his left hand secretly holding the card pinned inside his shorts fabric from the outer side.
“You’re acting weird, kid,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into that quiet, sharp tone he used when a car deal was falling apart.
“Is someone else talking to you?
Some cheap Spanish agent from the B-team?”
“My foot hurts,” Alejandro muttered, backing off a step toward the dressing room door.
“I need to ice my ankle.”
Marcus stared at him for three long seconds, his jaw working back and forth.
“Eighteen hundred euros is rent, Ale.
Your dad called me this morning asking if you had contract security yet.
Don’t play games you can’t afford.”
II
By midnight, the Vallecas apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator.
Alejandro sat at the small kitchen table under the dim yellow light.
The matte-black card sat on the wooden surface between a half-empty glass of tap water and an expired loaf of bread.
Aston Villa FC — Academy Scouting & Recruitment.
Don’t sign with Rayo.
Tuesday.
He pulled up his laptop, opening a browser tab.
He searched for Aston Villa’s international youth recruitment team.
The main site listed the Head of Academy Scouting as a man named James Corrigan.
But a fan forum thread from three weeks ago painted a completely different picture: Villa backroom shakeup after the new Sporting Director arrived.
Three regional scouts let go, two roaming scouts reassigned to South America.
Alejandro clicked through to a low-tier UK football news blog.
A headline from five days prior popped up: Midlands Club Restructures Youth Pipeline Amid PSR Financial Pressures.
Was the card real?
Or was it an unaccredited scout acting on his own, making promises the club’s board hadn’t approved yet?
If Villa wanted him, why send a vague handwritten note via a five-euro ball boy instead of making an official inquiry through Rayo?
“That paper looks expensive,” Leo said, walking out of the bathroom with a towel thrown over his wet hair.
Alejandro quickly slid a paper towel over the card.
“It’s nothing.”
“Marcus called your dad,” Leo said, grabbing a cold sausage from the fridge and eating it plain.
“Your dad sounded worried on the phone.
Kept asking if you were getting kicked out.”
Alejandro shut the laptop lid with a soft snap.
If he refused Rayo’s deal, he had no income starting next month.
No visa support in Spain.
No ticket home.
III
Sunday morning brought no rain, only a flat gray sky hanging low over Madrid.
At 10:15 AM, Alejandro was standing in the kitchen, boiling water for cheap instant coffee, when his phone vibrated on the counter.
It wasn’t Marcus.
It was the same UK country code number from WhatsApp: +44 7700…
He picked it up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Did you get the card?” A voice came through—raspy, distinctly North London accent, heavy with the drag of a long-time smoker.
It wasn’t his father.
It wasn’t any coach he had at Hale End.
Alejandro held the phone tight to his ear.
“Who is this?”
“Someone who knows you got squeezed out of Arsenal because your full-back didn’t cover your runs,” the man said flatly.
“I’m at the airport in Barajas.
Flight to Birmingham leaves in two hours.”
“Marcus wants me to sign the Rayo extension today,” Alejandro said, his throat dry.
“Eighteen hundred euros.”
“Eighteen hundred is garbage,” the man replied without hesitation.
“Villa is offering a trial match with the U21s on Tuesday morning.
Bodymoor Heath.
If you sign with Rayo today, your release clause kicks in, and Villa walks away.
They won’t pay two million euros for a trialist.”
“And if I fail the trial?” Alejandro asked.
The line went quiet for two long seconds.
The sound of an airport boarding call echoed faintly through the receiver.
“Then you’re an unemployed eighteen-year-old in London,” the man said.
“No safety net.
Make your choice, Jesse.”
The line went dead.
Five minutes later, the front door lock clicked.
Marcus walked in holding a blue ballpoint pen and the final draft of the Rayo contract, laying it flat on the table right next to Alejandro’s untouched mug.
“8:00 PM deadline is off,” Marcus said, pulling out a chair.
“Pérez wants the roster finalized before afternoon film session.
You sign now, or I turn the papers back into the office empty.”
Alejandro looked down at the paper.
Base Salary: €1,800 / month.
He reached out, his fingers touching the cold plastic of the pen.