Alex did not sleep. He did not eat. He barely blinked.
For three days, Alex Finch was not a footballer. He was not a sixteen year old boy. He was a machine.
He was back in his old life, but with a new purpose.
His bedroom looked like a command center. His laptop was open. His dad's old tablet was propped up next to it. Papers were taped to the walls.
On every screen, there was one face.
Sergio.
The Real Madrid number six. The captain. The general. The man Alex had worshipped for ten years in his previous life.
Alex watched him tackle. He watched him pass. He watched him shout at referees.
Sergio was perfect. He was a computer made of muscle and anger. He never lost the ball. He never lost his man. He knew where the pass was going before the kicker even moved his leg.
"He is a wall," Alex whispered to himself, rubbing his tired eyes. "He is a wall that moves. How do you beat a moving wall?"
His mum knocked on the door. "Alex? Dinner. I made lasagna."
