Year: 2022
World Cup Final: England vs Spain
Score: 0–0
(We're down to the final minutes of extra time and still no name on the scoreboard. If this keeps up, the World Cup winner will be decided by penalties.
Down the left wing comes World Eleven's winger, Pablo Romero. He glides forward with impeccable dribbling, carving through the flank like a dancer with the ball tied to his feet. He swings it forward for a cross—Oh! Intercepted brilliantly by the right back, who clears it long upfield.
Pablo scrambles back, desperate to recover, but he's too far up the pitch to reach it in time. The ball sails toward Spain's defense and—OH, MY HOLY LORD!
What an outrageous first touch by World Eleven's striker, Jason Prince! He's now face-to-face with Castillo.
Prince surges forward, eyes locked on goal. He flicks it—GOOOOOOAAAAAAL!
The best player in the world proves once again why he holds that crown, scoring the only goal in the World Cup Final!
Phrrr—phrrr—PHRRRRRR!
And there's the whistle! It's over! One of the most exhilarating finals in World Cup history has just ended!)
"¿Qué diablos fue eso?" Alejandro's father hurled his beer at the TV.
"Pablo! You had one job!" he barked before storming out, leaving Alejandro with the rest of his family.
"Mamá… do you think we'll ever win the World Cup?" Alejandro whispered, tears streaming down his face.
His mother pulled him into her arms, letting him sob against her shoulder.
"Don't worry, mi pequeño soñador," she whispered. "One day we will—and you'll be the reason."
Alejandro sniffled, wiping his eyes. He turned back to the TV.
On-screen, Pablo knelt on the turf, eyes wide, chest heaving, his hand slamming into the grass in frustration.
Alejandro clenched his fists.
"Don't worry, Pablo. I'll win us the next one… for sure."
*********
Year: 2024
Location: Seville, Spain
The alarm buzzed in a nearly empty apartment. A hand reached out, silenced it, and dropped the phone.
"It's already six," Alejandro muttered, pushing himself out of bed.
He trudged to the shower. Halfway through, his phone rang. He ignored it. By the time he stepped out, a voicemail notification blinked on the screen. Carlos Gómez.
Alejandro pressed play.
Beep
"Hola, mi amigo. It's been a while since we hung out—different teams and all that.
I won't keep you long. I just wanted to congratulate you for last season. Second in assists? Incredible, especially at your age.
Thanks to you, I've promised myself to push harder. I hope you do the same, because honestly… you seemed off in those last few matches.
It's a shame, considering how close you were to topping the assists chart. Still, making Team of the Season is no small feat.
If you ever want to talk, don't hesitate to call, alright, soñador?"
Beep
Alejandro dressed in silence, then slipped the phone into his pocket.
"Realmente, hombre…" he sighed, leaving the apartment.
Down in the parking lot, he straddled his motorcycle. The engine roared to life, echoing between the walls as he shot into the streets of Seville.
He weaved through traffic, the city flashing past, until the colossal frame of Estadio Benito Villamarín loomed ahead.
The bike growled to a stop outside the stadium. Alejandro parked, flashed his player ID at the gate, and walked through the quiet corridors