The England substitutes settled into their seats along the touchline while the starters lined up across the pitch.
As the noise inside the stadium swelled, one of the lads leaned forward and tapped Jerome Havne on the arm.
"Why's your neck sticking out like that?" he asked, squinting at him.
"You're nineteen. Don't tell me you're already getting stiff."
Jerome let out a small, awkward laugh and rubbed the back of his neck.
"No, nothing like that. I just… thought I recognised someone in their lineup."
He glanced toward the Italian players again, then back at the pitch.
"Probably got it wrong because I do not think that person should even be in their lineup. He seemed like he would be Spanish or something."
"Someone on the bench or starting?"
"Starting," Jerome said.
"But forget it. Must've seen it wrong."
The substitute nodded and leaned back in his seat.
"Fair enough. Anyway, hope I get a few minutes today."
