Alex was sore.
He did not just ache. He felt like he had been run over by a small, angry bus.
The training session after Milo the agent had visited was not football. It was a punishment.
The manager, Steve, had been furious. He had called them "soft" and "famous". He had called them "movie stars" and "t shirt models".
And then, he had made them run.
And run.
And run.
Alex, Antoine, and Mark. The Hurricane. They had run until their legs felt like water.
Now, it was Saturday. Gameday.
Alex sat on the team bus. It was quiet. It was grey and raining outside. They were driving north.
He looked across the aisle. Antoine was staring out the window, his face a mask of disgust. He was not looking at the grey sky. He was looking at the grey, ugly, brick towns.
"This," Antoine whispered to Alex, "is not a place for art. This is... this is mud. And anger."
Alex knew. His analyst brain had watched the videos. They were playing Burnley. Away.
