Alex woke up.
The room was quiet. The curtains were drawn.
He rolled over. Something cold and hard hit him in the face.
"Ow," Alex whispered.
He reached out and touched it. It was a medal. A heavy, gold, metal disc on a blue ribbon.
He pulled it close to his eyes.
CHAMPIONS LEAGUE WINNER.
It was not a dream.
He sat up. His head was spinning a little. The party last night had been... loud. He did not drink alcohol. He was sixteen (well, almost seventeen). He drank orange juice. But Mark... Mark had sprayed so much champagne that Alex felt like he had been marinated in it.
He got out of bed. His legs felt like old wood. Stiff. Sore.
He walked downstairs.
His house was usually quiet. Today, it looked like a bomb had gone off in a flower shop.
There were bouquets of flowers everywhere. On the table. On the floor. On the TV.
Red and white flowers.
His dad, David, was asleep in the armchair. He was wearing an Arsenal scarf. He was snoring. He looked very happy.
