The little café was tucked away on a quiet London side street, the kind of place you'd never find unless you were looking for it.
It was perfect. The air smelled of coffee beans and warm pastries, a comforting aroma that helped settle the nervous flutter in Leon's stomach.
Across the small wooden table, Nicolò Barella took a sip of his espresso, his expression calm and unreadable.
"So," Barella began, placing the tiny cup back on its saucer.
"You looked like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders when you called. What's going on?"
Leon hesitated, stirring his own untouched hot chocolate. How did he even start?
"The Madrid match," he mumbled. "It… it got to me. We lost. I felt like I was just a kid playing against men."
Barella let out a short, sharp laugh. It wasn't mocking, but knowing.
