Alex sat in the ice bath. It was cold. It was painful. It was his new favorite place.
His legs were throbbing from the Italy game. The bruises on his shins were turning a very impressive shade of purple.
Harry Kane was in the bath next to him. The England captain was reading a book about golf.
"You are shaking, Professor," Harry said, not looking up.
"The water is cold, Harry," Alex chattered.
"It is not the water," Harry smiled. "It is the news. You heard who won the other game."
Alex nodded. He had heard.
Portugal.
They had beaten Spain. They were through to the Quarter Finals.
That meant one thing.
Cristiano.
The legend. The machine. The man who had scored more goals than Alex had eaten hot dinners.
"He is just a man," Alex whispered, trying to convince himself.
Harry closed his book. He looked at Alex.
"He is not a man, Alex. He is a monument. He is a statue that runs. He is thirty nine years old, and he jumps higher than the crossbar. Do not disrespect the King."
