The bus ride to Burnley was long and grey. Alex stared out the window. The world was not bright and sunny like London. It was wet. The sky was a low, sad, grey sheet.
He was in his official club suit, sitting next to Antoine.
Antoine was not watching a movie. He was not listening to music. He was just... staring at his own perfect, expensive shoes. He looked disgusted.
"This," Antoine said, his voice low, "is not a place for football, Professor."
"It is just... different," Alex said. His ankle was fine, but his stomach was full of butterflies.
"It is mud," Antoine said. "And big men. And wind. It is... a street fight. I am an artist. I do not 'street fight'."
"I know," Alex said. He looked across the aisle.
Mark was not disgusted. He was vibrating. He was in his own shiny suit, but he was bouncing his leg so hard the whole seat was shaking.
"A street fight!" Mark whispered to himself, grinning. "Yes! Chaos! I am going to run right through them!"
