The phone on the mahogany desk didn't look like a weapon of mass destruction, but it felt like one.
It was an iPhone 15 Pro Max, encased in a cover that looked like a slice of pepperoni pizza. It belonged to Enzo Moretti.
Around it, the War Room at Barnsley's training complex was silent.
It was 11:00 PM in Yorkshire. It was 7:00 PM in Buenos Aires.
Michael Sterling sat in his leather chair, staring at the black screen. He was sweating. He had faced Real Madrid at the Bernabéu without blinking, but the prospect of calling a 17-year-old kid made him want to vomit.
"Boss," Arthur Milton whispered from the sofa, clutching a bag of Sour Patch Kids. "What if he hangs up? What if he doesn't speak English? What if he's eating dinner and we interrupt his steak?"
"Arthur," Michael hissed. "Shut the fuck up. You are vibrating. You are making the air nervous."
