Alex woke up and stared at his ceiling.
For a second, he wondered if it had all been a dream.
The roar of sixty thousand people. The perfect grass of the Emirates. The pass to Harry. The nod from Bastian. The final whistle.
He turned his head.
On his bedside table, next to a half empty glass of water, was a small, white box. Inside was a beautiful, simple watch.
Next to it, folded neatly on his chair, was a sweaty, muddy, red and white Arsenal jersey. Number 10. ANTOINE.
It was real. It had all been real.
He got out of bed. His legs were sore. His back was stiff from where Bruno had hit him. He felt... amazing.
He went downstairs. His mum, Sarah, was in the kitchen. She had made a huge breakfast. Eggs, sausages, beans. Enough for three people.
"There he is!" she said, beaming. She ran over and kissed him on the head. "My superstar! You must be starving! I read in an article that superstars eat a lot."
"Mum, I am not a superstar," Alex laughed, his face turning red.
