Alex sat at the kitchen table. He was staring at a white jersey.
It was framed. His dad had done it yesterday. It was hanging on the wall, right next to the picture of Alexs first goal.
Number 4. SERGIO.
It was still covered in grass stains. His dad said the stains were "history".
"Eat your eggs, Professor," his mum said, putting a plate down. "You cannot conquer Europe on an empty stomach."
"I am not conquering Europe today, mum," Alex laughed. "It is just recovery training."
"You are a hero," his dad said from behind his newspaper. "The paper says you are the 'King Slayer'. I like that one."
Alex smiled. King Slayer. It sounded cool. But he did not feel like a king slayer. He felt like a sixteen year old boy who was very, very sore.
He finished his breakfast and grabbed his bag. He had his black boots. He had his training kit.
He was ready.
He walked into the training ground at seven forty five. Bastian early.
