The word hung in the air, a single, impossible, and utterly devastating syllable.
"...player."
Leon's mind, which had just been basking in the warm, satisfying glow of a hard-fought victory, went completely, utterly blank. He stood in the noisy, happy chaos of the away dressing room at Brighton, the phone pressed to his ear, the world a distant, muffled hum.
"Marco," he said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "What are you talking about? What player?"
"THAT'S THE PROBLEM, LEO! THAT'S THE BEAUTIFUL, TERRIFYING, BRIATORE-SIZED PROBLEM!" his agent roared, his voice a frantic, hysterical mess on the other end of the line. "He won't say! He just said, and I quote, 'PSG gets their captain. Liverpool gets their boy wonder. And I... I get my new foundation. A rock upon which I will build my new Roman empire.' He's a madman, Leo! A beautiful, evil, Gucci-wearing madman!"
