If You're Good Enough, You're Old Enough

Alex sat behind the wooden podium in the softly lit press room of the Milan hotel where all away teams checked in. The beige walls were dull, the kind that absorbed sound instead of bouncing it. Polished floors reflected soft yellow light, and the air was filled with the familiar mix of overused cologne, faint coffee, and freshly printed media sheets. Rows of neatly dressed journalists, laptops on their knees, filled the room with a low, electric murmur.

He sat still, spine straight, but his shoulders sagged just slightly. The fatigue clung to him, not heavy enough to break him, but insistent enough to be felt. Last night's flight still tugged at his limbs like ghost weights, a dull ache that reminded him he hadn't rested properly. Two days ago, his team had played one of their most emotionally exhausting matches of the season, and now, they were staring down AC Milan, another giant standing at the gates.