"Wolves," he said. "Your man Freedman is talking to Wolves."
"That's right," I said.
"I came back to this club," he said. "I chose to come back."
"I know you did," I said. "And I respect that. But I have to make decisions based on where the squad needs to go, not on sentiment."
"Sentiment," he repeated, the word landing hard. "That's what you call it."
"Bakary," I said, keeping my voice level. "You're twenty-nine. Wolves are going to be a good Championship side. You'll play every week. You'll be important to them." I paused. "Here, I can't promise you that."
He looked at me for a long moment. The anger was still there, but underneath it something else was shifting, the slow, reluctant process of a man accepting something he didn't want to accept. "Wolves know me," he said finally. "From before."
"They do," I said. "That's why it makes sense."
