The atmosphere in Paris was charged. The Champions League Final.
Alex stood on the touchline. He looked at his team warming up.
The final was against Arsenal. His old club. His home.
But tonight, he was the manager of Como 1907.
"It is strange," Mark whispered, standing next to him. He was wearing a beret (because they were in France) and eating a croissant.
"What is?" Alex asked.
"Seeing Saka in a red shirt," Mark said. "He is my friend. But tonight, I have to hope he trips over his own feet."
"We hope he plays badly," Alex corrected. "We don't wish for trips."
"I wish for a small, harmless trip," Mark compromised. "Just a stumble."
The whistle blew.
The game started.
Arsenal were strong. They had Odegaard. They had Rice. They had Martinelli.
Como were the underdogs. But they had the Liquid Diamond.
In the tenth minute, Odegaard played a through ball.
Martinelli ran. He was fast.
He shot.
Raya saved.
"Close!" Alex shouted. "Tighten up!"
Como fought back.
