Goodison Park roared with the kind of feverish intensity only a relegation decider could summon. The stands were soaked in a sea of blue, white, and the occasional flicker of maroon from the away fans. Rain lashed down from above, almost as if the heavens themselves mourned what was about to happen. Every seat was filled, every pair of eyes glued to the pitch, every heart thumping in collective agony or anticipation.
It was the 93rd minute. Everton 2, Burnley 2. One minute left of stoppage time. Everton needed a win to stay up. One goal from Burnley, and it would be curtains.
On the touchline stood Alex Walker, arms crossed tight over his chest, drenched to the bone, shouting instructions to his players with the raw desperation of a man teetering on the edge. His voice was hoarse, his eyes wild. He had black hair slicked back by the rain and eyes as blue as the Everton kits around him—eyes that had once seen glory, eyes that had once read the pitch like scripture. Now they darted from player to player, full of anxious hope.
"Push up! Get forward, goddammit!" he bellowed, waving his arms furiously. His players barely responded. The energy was gone. The legs were heavy. Hope was thinner than the mist curling over the Mersey.
The final minute ticked away with agonizing slowness. The ball was in Burnley's half, hovering near the corner flag. Everton's winger, Gordon, tried to shield it, but Burnley's left-back came crashing in, shoulder to shoulder. The ball spun loose. Burnley broke.
Alex screamed. "Foul! That's a foul! Blow the damn whistle!"
The referee waved play on.
Burnley surged forward. A long ball. A flicked header. A through pass.
Alex's heart stopped as Burnley's striker, Thompson, galloped toward goal. Only Tarkowski between him and history.
The crowd gasped. Time slowed. Raindrops hung in the air like tiny daggers.
Tarkowski lunged. A clean tackle. The ball squirted sideways. Everton's left-back booted it out of bounds.
The stadium erupted in primal sound—cheers, moans, prayers.
Ten seconds.
The throw-in was rushed. Burnley lobbed it in. Headed clear by Keane. Burnley tried to volley. Blocked. Another clearance.
The referee looked at his watch.
Alex held his breath. His vision blurred. Not just from the rain. From something deeper.
Five seconds.
Burnley had the ball again. One last attempt. A long-range shot.
Straight into Pickford's gloves.
The whistle came.
Full time.
Everton 2, Burnley 2. Enough to stay up—for Burnley.
Not for Everton.
Relegated.
There was a second of silence. A stunned, eerie hush before the storm hit.
Then came the boos.
A fourth relegation in five years for Alex Walker. A fourth goddamn stain on a career that once sparkled like a trophy cabinet full of medals.
The cameras turned toward him, capturing his frozen expression. He didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Didn't speak.
The Everton faithful, always passionate, always unforgiving. There were chants—"You're not fit to wear the badge!" and worse.
A kid near the front row threw a scarf. It landed near the sideline. Alex didn't flinch. A flare went off in the away end. Maroon smoke drifted through the mist.
Alex turned slowly and walked down the tunnel, each step echoing like a nail in a coffin. His assistant coach mumbled something about media duties, but he didn't hear a word. He kept walking.
Underneath the stadium, the air was damp and metallic. The locker room smelled of muscle rub, sweat, and defeat. The kind of smell that clung to your skin and wouldn't wash off.
He sank onto the bench, pulled his soaked jacket off, and stared blankly at the floor.
The players began filtering in, one by one. Heads hung. Some were crying. Others punched lockers. The captain threw his armband down and collapsed into a seat. No one looked at Alex.
He thought of Spain. Of the Bernabéu. Of passing triangles and champagne football. He thought of his captain's armband. Of lifting trophies. Of being called 'El Mago del Medio'—The Magician of the Midfield. He thought of his early days at Manchester United, his rise with the English National Team, and his graceful twilight years at Inter Milan.
He remembered the feel of leather boots. The roar of the crowd chanting his name. How the ball seemed to obey him. Those memories lived in high definition.
Now he sat in grey.
He thought of what he'd become. A laughingstock. A manager without vision. Tens of millions spent on players no one had heard of. Scandals with players. Fights with journalists. A toxic locker room. And now this.
A stat flashed across the TV screen mounted in the corner:
"Everton Relegated – First Time in 74 Years."
The chest pain started again. This time it wasn't dull. It was fire.
He tried to ignore it. Breathed deep. Closed his eyes. Thought of nothing.
It got worse.
He reached for his phone, maybe to call someone. No one came to mind.
Not his agent. Not his daughter. Not his ex-wife. Not even his old teammates. He had burned bridges. Let people drift. Become an island.
He stood up, maybe to go for help, but his legs betrayed him.
He fell. Flat on the cold tile floor.
Boots clattered. Someone yelled. A physio rushed over.
Darkness took him.
But before it did, something else happened. Something... strange.
A sound. Mechanical. Unfamiliar.
[Ding! Coaching System Activated.]
What?
[Initializing Host Memory... Loading Tactical Interface... Synchronizing Football Intelligence Database...]
He was hallucinating. Had to be.
[Welcome, Alex Walker.]
And then everything went black.