Alex sat on his bed. His room was quiet.
On his wall, the white Real Madrid shirt was hanging. Next to it was the red and blue Barcelona shirt.
Two trophies from two wars.
He looked at the empty space next to them.
He needed one more shirt. A light blue one. Manchester City.
He needed to complete the collection.
He stood up. His legs were heavy. His chest still hurt from where he had blocked the ball at the Camp Nou.
But he did not care.
He was going to the Champions League Final.
He walked downstairs. His house was... different.
It was not just his house anymore. It was a museum.
His mum had framed every newspaper. Every photo. Every interview.
"Morning, Professor," his dad said. He was drinking tea out of a mug that had Alexs face on it.
"Dad," Alex groaned. "Please do not drink out of my head."
"It tastes better," his dad laughed. "It tastes like victory."
