The room was quiet. It was the kind of quiet that comes after a long, loud party.
Alex stood in the center of his living room. It wasn't his childhood bedroom anymore. It was a penthouse in London.
But he had brought everything with him.
He looked at the shelf.
It was a wall of gold and silver.
The Premier League Trophy. (Replica). The FA Cup. (Replica). The Champions League Trophy. (Replica). The World Cup. (Replica). The Ballon d'Or. (Real. Heavy. Shiny).
And next to them, the smaller things.
The Player of the Month awards. The Golden Boy trophy. The "Man of the Match" vases (he had used one to hold pens, another to hold Mark's lollipops).
It was a museum of his life.
"Three lives," Alex whispered. "One shelf."
He picked up the Ballon d'Or. It reflected his face. He looked older than 20. But his eyes were still bright.
"Heavy," he muttered.
The door buzzer rang.
Alex put the trophy down. He walked to the intercom.
"Who is it?"
