Edward
I was still sweating from training when my phone buzzed on the bench in the locker room.
England training in London always leaves me feeling like I've been hit by a very polite, very well-coached truck. My shoulders were gone. My legs were gone. My brain was about 70% protein shake and 30% trying to remember if I'd actually eaten lunch.
The name on the screen made me sit up straighter.
Matteo.
I answered it on the second ring, still toweling my hair. "Hey."
"Edward," Matteo said. "You sound like you've just been run over."
"I have. By the England forwards. What's up?"
"Quick meeting. In my office. Half an hour?"
I frowned. "Everything alright?"
"Everything's fine," he said. "Just a contract thing I want to run past you before it goes anywhere. In person."
"Alright," I said. "I'll come now."
"Perfect. See you soon."
