The Santiago Bernabéu was a cauldron of white noise, but inside the center circle, Enzo Moretti had found a pocket of silence.
It was the 22nd minute. Barnsley had spent the entire game surviving. They were bruised, battered, and Diego Nunez was bleeding from the nose. But the score was still 0-0.
Enzo put his foot on the ball. He stood perfectly upright, chest out, beard groomed to perfection.
Luka Modric, the eternal genius of Madrid's midfield, pressed him. It was like watching a ghost hunt a shadow.
"Boss!" Arthur Milton squeaked from the bench, covering his eyes with a purple scarf. "He's not moving! Why isn't he moving?! Modric is going to steal his lunch money!"
"He's not waiting, Arthur," Michael Sterling whispered, his eyes glued to the Italian. "He's inviting him in for coffee."
Modric lunged. A subtle, experienced feint to the left.
