PREVIEW

... ts echoed against the concrete. Studs scraped and clacked — some light, some heavy — all following a rhythm that only footballers knew. Bibs were tossed. Shirts pulled tight. Armbands fixed in place. You could smell it now: the deep heat, the stitched leather, the freshly watered pitch just beyond the tunnel.

Thirty-five thousand waited.

Tristan stood near the front of the Leicester line, bouncing once on his toes. His curls were tied back, his breath steady. The crown on his boo ...

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