Alex felt like his body was made of happy, buzzing electricity.
He was in his small bedroom. He was just... sitting. He had been sitting for an hour. He was watching the replay of the game on his laptop. He saw his pass. The one he curled with the outside of his boot. He saw Mark. He saw the cold, perfect, one touch poke. He saw the celebration. Mark, standing in front of the silent, angry Tottenham fans, his finger to his lips.
It was, Alex thought with his analyst brain, perfect. The data was perfect. The story was perfect.
His phone, which he had put on silent, was just a black square on his desk. It had buzzed so many times it had moved six inches across the wood.
He finally picked it up.
One hundred and twelve new messages.
He opened the first one. It was from his dad.
"I am too proud to even speak. Your mum is crying. We love you. You were a lion."
He opened the next one. It was from Sam, his old U18 friend.
