Alex did not sleep well.
His bed was soft, but his mind was hard. It was full of data. Full of sharp, loud, angry images of the Lincoln City defenders. He had watched three of their games.
Bastian was right. They did not play football. They just... hurt people.
He got on the bus with the team. It was not the fancy first team bus that went to Premier League games. It was a normal coach. It felt... real.
He was wearing his official club suit. The one Milo the agent had sent over. It was dark grey, fit him perfectly, and made him look like a very serious, very small lawyer.
He sat down. He was next to Bastian. He could feel the heat coming off the giant German, who was already half asleep, his headphones on.
Alex was wide awake. His analyst brain was on fire.
He looked across the aisle. Mark was sitting there. He was also in a new suit. It was a little too shiny. He was wearing his brand new, bright silver boots. On a bus.
"Mark," Alex whispered.
Mark jumped. "What?"
