Three years later.
The training ground had changed. It was bigger. More futuristic. There were drones flying overhead, filming every pass. There were sensors in the grass.
Alex Finch stood in the center circle. He was 31 now.
He touched his knee. It was still strong. The Phoenix Protocol had done its job.
But the game was changing.
He looked around.
The squad was full of new faces. Kids. Eighteen-year-olds who ran like cheetahs and had haircuts that defied gravity.
There was Leo (not his son, a new winger). He was fast. He was arrogant. He reminded Alex of... well, Mark.
Speaking of Mark.
Mark was sitting on a bench on the sidelines. He was wearing a suit. Not a football kit.
Mark had retired last season. His knees had finally said "No more running."
Now, he was the Assistant Manager. Or, as he called himself, the "Minister of Morale".
"RUN FASTER!" Mark shouted at the new kids, eating a croissant. "IF YOU DO NOT RUN, I WILL EAT YOUR LUNCH!"
