The rain in Manchester was falling. It swirled around the Etihad Stadium like a swarm of angry bees, soaking the blue flags and turning the perfectly manicured pitch into a slick, treacherous surface.
Inside the away dressing room, the air was thick with the smell of Deep Heat and fear.
Arthur Milton sat in the corner, clutching a family-sized bag of jelly babies like it was a holy relic. His face was the color of a wet pavement.
"Boss," Arthur squeaked, chewing on a red one aggressively. "I checked the team sheet again. They have eleven players."
Michael Sterling adjusted his purple tie in the mirror, activating his Media Darling smile just to test it out. It was blinding.
"That is standard regulation, Arthur," Michael replied calmly, though his own heart was hammering a rhythm against his ribs. "Unless Pep has figured out how to clone De Bruyne, which, honestly, I wouldn't put past him."
