Alex stood in his bedroom. It was quiet.
He looked at the trophies on his shelf.
The Golden Boy. The Champions League medal.
The Premier League medal. (They had won it. On the last day. It was stressful. Mark had cried.)
And now... the World Cup was coming.
He was eighteen. He was not a kid anymore.
He packed his bag.
His mum walked in. She was holding a new shirt. An England shirt.
But this one was different. It didn't have "26" on the back.
It had "8".
The midfield general's number.
"You look grown up," his mum said, her eyes misty.
"I am still me, mum," Alex smiled. "Just... with better boots."
His dad walked in. He was holding a passport.
"Qatar," his dad said. "It is hot. Drink water."
"I will, dad."
"And... bring it home," his dad said, his voice thick. "Bring it home, son."
The flight to Qatar was long.
Alex sat next to Jude Bellingham. They were the engine of England now.
"Ready, Professor?" Jude asked. He was wearing noise-canceling headphones.
