Time is relative. Einstein said that. But in football, time is a blur.
One minute you are a teenager making your debut. The next, you are a veteran.
Alex Finch sat in his living room. It was bigger now. More modern. The view of London was still there, but the skyline had changed slightly.
He looked at the calendar.
It wasn't 2024 anymore. It was 2034.
Ten years had passed.
A decade of dominance.
He walked to the mirror.
He was 28 years old. He wasn't the "Wonderkid" anymore. He was the "King".
His hair was a bit shorter. His face was a bit sharper. He had a few grey hairs (probably from worrying about Mark).
He looked at the shelf. It was full. Overflowing.
Five Ballon d'Ors. Four World Cups (Okay, maybe two. Let's be realistic. Two World Cups is still insane). Seven Premier League titles. Five Champions Leagues.
And, most importantly, the "Pizza Trophy" Mark had made him out of tin foil in 2026. It was still there, gathering dust.
"Ten years," Alex whispered.
