The alarm went off at half six, and he was already awake.
He’d been awake for a while, actually, which was its own kind of punishment, lying there in the dark with the game replaying in pieces behind his eyes.
The penalty.
The one that crept under De Gea.
And their Panenka that ended up in the hands of Ben Amos.
He’d seen it live, and he’d seen it again at midnight when he couldn’t sleep and had pulled his phone out to watch the highlights, like someone pressing a bruise to check if it still hurt.
And it still hurt.
He got up, got clean and got dressed, turning on the television while the kettle boiled because Sky Sports was already going and he needed to know how bad it was out there.
It was bad.
"I’m going to be honest," Neville said, leaning forward in his chair with the expression of a man who had been thinking about this since the final whistle.
"Because somebody has to be. That was not acceptable. That was a Championship club. A Championship club that was missing half its squad, playing a seventeen-year-old through a hamstring injury, and we couldn’t see them off. That is not a United performance. That is not what this club should look like."
Hearing the words from one of their own, he couldn’t help but nod as he picked up his mug.
The kettle had finished, but he left it just as another voice came from the TV.
Ferdinand was beside Neville, arms folded, shaking his head slowly.
"The result is one thing," Ferdinand said.
"I can deal with a bad result. What I can’t deal with is finding out this morning, the morning after, that the kid who won it for them, the one who made that run and then held his nerve in the shootout, used to be at our academy."
At the words from Ferdinand, he couldn’t help but open his mouth.
"And he left on a free. On a free!!"
The presenter started to say something, and Ferdinand held a hand up.
"I’m not finished. He left on a free, and nobody there thought to fight for him. Nobody saw enough in him to say, ’Hang on, let’s not let this one go.’ And then he goes to Wigan, where Dawson gets hold of him, and last night happens."
He sat back as Ferdinand, looking like a wounded dog, continued.
"That’s the bit that stings. Not the result. That."
A moment later, he poured his tea but didn’t drink it and picked up his phone instead.
Twitter was exactly what he expected it to be.
A long scroll of misery in red, punctuated by the occasional Wigan fan who had been up all night and was still going hard on the trolling and the memes.
He scrolled past most of it until a name stopped him.
Paul Scholes.
Scholes rarely posted, and when he did, it tended to mean something.
Difficult to watch last night. Not because we lost, that happens. Difficult because the best player on that pitch came through our academy, and we didn’t see it. That’s a scouting problem, a coaching problem, a culture problem. He found that pass leading up to the equaliser and made one of the best keepers in our history look amateur, and we let that walk out the door.
He read it twice.
Then he put his phone in his pocket, picked up his bag and his tea, which he’d forgotten to drink before he went out the front door.
The sky was the particular grey that English Mondays specialise in, low and committed, and he’d made it about four steps down the pavement when a car went through the puddle at the kerb and the water came up and caught him across the shin and the bottom hem of his trousers.
He stood there for a moment and almost cursed, but then a line of kids, causing him to bite his tongue down to keep himself from saying whatever was on his mind.
Then, further down the road, from the park on the left, a football came sailing over the railing and hit him in the shoulder before bouncing away.
A kid’s voice from somewhere inside the park said sorry in a tone that suggested he wasn’t particularly.
"You’ve got to..... *sigh*"
He tried to say, but once again, kept himself in check before looking down at his trousers and then back up at where the ball had gone.
For a moment, it was almost like he was lifeless, standing still like a mannequin, while the few people who passed him on the road glanced at him before minding their own business.
"Mummy, what’s wrong with that man?"
"He’s probably having a hard time, Timmy!"
He heard a couple whisps of conversation before he finally pulled his phone out and began to turn around.
"Yeah, Joanne," he said after a click sound came through the phone.
"I am calling in sick today!"
...
Mia came out of her room and into the living area, where Leo was on the couch, and without breaking stride, she got close enough and punched him in the arm.
"Ow—"
"Why is Vittoria asking about you through me?"
Sofia’s head appeared from the kitchen, brow raised the moment she heard Mia.
"Really?"
"She messaged my DMs," Mia said, holding her phone up like evidence.
"Her other account."
Sofia turned from the counter and looked at Leo properly.
"Why?"
"We just haven’t talked in a while," Leo said, shifting upright. "It’s nothing serious."
"A month and a half," Mia said.
"That’s not that long."
"For the way you two used to talk?" Mia gave him a look. "That’s not a while, Leo."
Sofia set down what she was holding and leaned against the kitchen doorframe with her arms folded.
"Did something happen between you two?"
"Nothing happened. You’re both overthinking it." He settled back into the couch.
"I’ve been recovering, I didn’t have the headspace, and she always seems busy, so I didn’t want to—"
"What did you last text her about?" Mia asked.
Leo paused for just a fraction too long before Mia held out her hand.
He picked up his phone, opened the chat, and the screen showed a few unread messages.
All from Vittoria.
All sitting there unopened, at least until he just did.
Hey.
You good?
How’s recovery!
Mia looked at the screen, reading the messages before she glanced at Sofia and then showed it to her.
Sofia looked at the screen.
Then closed her eyes briefly before both of them turned away from him at roughly the same moment, in roughly the same direction, with roughly the same expression.
"What?" Leo said.
"What?" he came again, but neither of them answered and just walked away, with Mia heading back to her room while Sofia turned back towards the kitchenette.