The cryptic text message, with its talk of compromised networks and the need to disappear, felt like a scene from a badly written spy thriller Leon had accidentally wandered into.
It was so dramatic, so out of sync with his new, quiet life of coaching badges and tactical analysis, that after a brief, initial jolt of panic, he did the only sensible thing he could think of: he blocked the number and went back to analyzing Liverpool's upcoming match against West Ham.
They know where you live. Well, yes, he thought wryly, so did the pizza delivery guy and his mother's overly friendly neighbour, Mrs. Higgins.
If some shadowy organization wanted to discuss the finer points of footballing metaphysics, they could make an appointment. He had work to do.
Life as a non-player was a strange, beautiful, and surprisingly busy rhythm.
His days were now filled with the meticulous, often maddening, world of coaching.
