The Sunday morning in London was crisp. The kind of morning that smelled of freshly cut grass and possibilities.
Alex walked down the street. He wasn't wearing his Arsenal kit. He wasn't wearing a suit. He was wearing a plain grey hoodie and old trainers.
He wanted to be invisible.
But he was Alex Finch. The Ballon d'Or winner. Invisibility was not an option.
He turned the corner into the local park.
It was a small park. A patch of green surrounded by brick houses. There were goalposts made of jumpers. The lines were imaginary.
A group of kids were playing.
They were maybe ten years old. They wore mismatched kits. One had a Messi shirt. One had a Ronaldo shirt. One had a Saka shirt.
And one... one had a shirt that said FINCH 8 on the back.
Alex stopped. He watched them.
The ball was a cheap plastic one. It moved unpredictably in the wind. The kids didn't care. They chased it like it was made of gold.
"Pass to me!" the kid in the Finch shirt yelled.
