Emma was asleep on the sofa with the lamp on when I came in at half 3 on Thursday morning. The little radio was still going on the counter, low. She woke up when I turned it off.
"How is Achraf?"
"He fetched the ball out of the net himself."
"Then he is all right." She pulled the blanket up to her chin. "Come to bed."
I went to bed and lay there. I picked the team for San Siro again in the dark, twice, and both times it came out the same 11.
The ones who had stayed at home were in the canteen when I walked in at 1 that afternoon. The laptop they had watched it on was still on the end table with the lid down. Wilfried Zaha looked up, saw me, picked up his plate with the food still on it and carried it to the hatch.
"Gaffer," he said on his way past.
On Friday Achraf Hakimi was out on pitch 3 before I had parked the car, in a woollen hat, with a bag of balls he had carried across himself.
