The plastic cap of the pen felt cold between Alejandro’s thumb and forefinger.
Marcus leaned over the kitchen table, his heavy breathing whistling slightly through his nose.
He tapped the signature line twice with a blunt fingernail.
“Sign it, Ale.
I have to drive to the club offices before eleven.”
Alejandro’s hand hovered over the paper.
The blue ink tip touched the white surface, leaving a tiny, dark dot right above the line.
€1,800.
It was a safety net.
It was rent.
It was four months of guaranteed medicine for his mother in South London.
Alejandro pulled his hand back, sliding the pen across the wooden table.
It rolled into Marcus’s lukewarm coffee mug with a soft clink.
“I’m not signing,” Alejandro said.
Marcus blinked, his face going still.
The ambient hum of the refrigerator suddenly seemed twice as loud in the small kitchen.
“What did you just say?”
“I need until Tuesday,” Alejandro said, his throat tight.
Under the table, he pressed his toes hard against the inside of his worn sneakers, jamming them into the floor.
“I can’t commit to three years on eighteen hundred.”
“Tuesday?” Marcus’s voice spiked, the color rushing to his thick neck.
He slammed both palms onto the table, making the contract paper flutter.
“Pérez is taking the squad list to the league registration desk at noon today!
You think Rayo is going to hold a La Liga roster spot for a kid who couldn’t even complete a ten-yard pass against Getafe?”
“I just need forty-eight hours,” Alejandro insisted, standing up so fast his knee knocked against the table leg, sending his coffee sloshing over the lip of the mug.
“Who told you to wait?” Marcus barked, stepping into Alejandro’s personal space.
His eyes darted to the paper towel sitting crumpled near the laptop.
He reached out and snatched it away, revealing the matte-black card underneath.
Marcus picked up the card, his brow furrowing as he read the silver foil lettering.
“Aston Villa?” Marcus read aloud, his voice dropping into a dangerous, disbelieving gravel.
“You’re throwing away a first-team contract in Spain for a piece of cardboard some scout handed to a ball boy?”
“It’s a trial match,” Alejandro blurted out, regret hitting him instantly as the words left his mouth.
Marcus let out a short, harsh laugh that sounded like dry coughing.
“A trial match?
Ale, Villa’s recruitment team doesn’t drop cards in Vallecas without contacting the registered agent first.
This is garbage.
Some rogue scout is using you to hit his regional quota!”
“He said they won’t pay the two-million release clause if I sign with Rayo today,” Alejandro said, trying to hold his ground, though his lower lip trembled slightly.
Marcus crumpled the black card in his fist and threw it flat against Alejandro’s chest.
“Then you’re on your own,” Marcus growled.
II
The front door slammed so hard the glass pane in the hallway rattled.
Alejandro stood alone in the kitchen.
The Rayo contract draft lay on the floor, torn slightly along the top margin where Marcus had snatched his coat.
Leo walked out of the bedroom wearing an oversized hoodie, holding an Xbox controller in one hand.
He looked at the paper on the floor, then at Alejandro.
“Did he just leave?” Leo asked, rubbing his eyes.
“Yeah,” Alejandro said.
He bent down, picked up the paper, and set it on the counter.
“Does that mean we have to clear out the apartment?” Leo asked, turning toward the fridge to pull out a cold carton of orange juice.
“Because the landlord said rent is due on the first, and my half isn’t coming until my uncle pays me for the garage shift.”
“I don’t know,” Alejandro said flatly.
He walked into his small bedroom and shut the door.
His hands were shaking as he pulled his passport out of the top drawer of his nightstand.
He opened his banking app on his phone.
Current balance: €412.50.
A one-way budget flight from Madrid to Birmingham on short notice was €185.
If he bought the ticket, he would have less than two hundred euros to his name.
No agency backing him.
No safety net in Madrid.
No contract in London.
He dropped onto the edge of his mattress, staring at his muddy boots sitting in the corner of the room.
He had burnt the bridge.
Rayo Vallecano was over.
III
By 2:00 PM, Alejandro sat at the gate inside Terminal 4 of Adolfo Suárez Madrid–Barajas Airport, his duffel bag resting between his feet.
He opened his laptop to check the flight details again.
The caller from earlier had explicitly said: I’m at the airport in Barajas.
Flight to Birmingham leaves in two hours.
Alejandro opened the Barajas airport departure board on his browser, filtering for all UK-bound flights between 11:00 AM and 1:00 PM.
His eyes scanned the screen.
11:20 AM — London Heathrow (BA457) — Departed
11:45 AM — Manchester (FR2183) — Departed
12:30 PM — London Gatwick (EZY8322) — Departed
There was no direct flight from Madrid to Birmingham scheduled anywhere on the board for the entire morning.
Alejandro dragged his stiff index finger across the trackpad, repeatedly refreshing the browser page until the blue loading circle froze.
He re-checked the historical departure logs for the day.
Nothing.
The nearest flight to the Midlands was a connecting flight through Dublin landing late Monday night.
Why would the man lie about his flight?
Was he even at the airport when he called?
Or was he calling from a desk in London, feeding him fake urgency to force him to reject Rayo’s offer?
His phone buzzed in his palm.
A text message from his father, David:
David: Marcus called me screaming.
Said you lost your mind and walked out on Rayo.
Alejandro, what are you doing?
Your mother’s prescription renewal is due on Thursday.
Alejandro’s thumb hovered over the keyboard.
He couldn’t type the truth.
He couldn’t tell his father that he was sitting in T4 on a €185 ticket heading toward a trial match that hadn’t even been officially confirmed by Aston Villa’s front office.
Instead, he turned off his phone and shoved it into his jacket pocket.
The gate agent announced the final boarding call for the flight to London Stansted—the cheapest routing he could find to get back to England before Tuesday morning.
Alejandro picked up his duffel bag, handed his boarding pass to the agent, and walked down the narrow, metallic jet bridge toward the plane.
There was no turning back now.
In thirty-six hours, he would either be standing on the turf at Bodymoor Heath with a real contract—or he would be an unemployed eighteen-year-old standing in the London rain with empty pockets.