[Chantilly]
The Auberge du Jeu de Paume had settled into its evening hush.
Outside, the gardens of Chantilly were cloaked in shadows, the scent of damp grass seeping faintly through the open windows, and inside the recreational lobby, a soft golden lamplight hung over the leather couches, the muted clink of dishes still being cleared in the distant dining room fading into the quiet.
Izan sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, the glow of an iPad reflected in his eyes.
The screen played and replayed snippets of Paris Saint-Germain's defensive phases, back lines shuffling, Hakimi tucking in narrow, Marquinhos stepping out of position to anticipate a pass.
It was silent except for the low hum of the clip's audio until the sound of trainers scuffing against the carpet broke the calm.
Ethan Nwaneri dropped himself onto the cushion beside Izan with the graceless thump only a teenager could manage.
