The first bleep sounded. They started running.
The early levels were easy. A gentle jog. Everyone was comfortable. Everyone was smiling. Pato was laughing with Bojan. Navas was running with the easy, loping stride of a man who could do this all day. Konaté looked like he was barely moving.
Then the levels started to climb. The bleeps got closer together. The smiles disappeared. The jogging turned into running. The running turned into sprinting. The first players started to drop out.
A few of the academy kids who had been invited to train with the new signings. Then Chilwell, his face red, his lungs burning. He had given it everything. I made a mental note of that. He had heart.
Tarkowski was next. He was not the most natural athlete, but he was stubborn. He had ground his way to a respectable level through sheer bloody-mindedness. He stopped, bent over, his hands on his knees, and glared at the finish line like it had personally offended him. I liked that. He was a fighter.
