The screen didn’t show a match. It showed a tunnel. Not the Donbass Arena’s, but a grey concrete corridor lined with old CRT televisions, each one humming static. The air smelled of rain and fresh-cut grass.
"No," Marco whispered. "Later."
He clicked.
Pirlo turned. Not on the pitch. On the screen. The midfielder, with the beard of a philosopher and the eyes of a man who had seen your future, looked out . pirlo roja directa