"Why does it always rain when we play big games?" Mark asked, looking gloomy. "I am a solar-powered athlete. I need sun."
"The rain makes the pitch fast," Alex said, not looking away from the window. "It suits us."
"It suits Mbappe," Antoine said from the seat behind them. Antoine looked nervous. He was chewing his nails. "He loves the wet. It makes him slide."
"We will stop him," Jude said, flexing his biceps. "I will slide into him. Hard."
"Don't get sent off, Power," Alex warned. "We need eleven men."
The bus pulled up to the Parc des Princes. It was a concrete fortress, surrounded by thousands of angry French fans.
Flares were burning. Red smoke filled the air.
"Bienvenue à Paris," Antoine whispered. "Welcome to the jungle."
The locker room was small and hot.
Steve, the manager, stood in the middle. He looked calm.
"Quarter Final," Steve said. "First leg. Away."
He looked at the team.
