A large, dark vehicle with the club crest on its flank moved at a walking pace, wrapped in crimson light.
Fans slapped the sides with open palms. Children were held up on shoulders. The windows were tinted, but the front ones had been lowered a little, and as the bus passed, Lucia caught glimpses of the faces inside.
Julian was pressed against the glass with a huge, boyish grin, waving with both hands. Romero sat with his arms folded and his jaw set. Behind him, a small white dressing was still taped to one corner of Unai's forehead, and he lifted two fingers to the crowd in a lazy salute that made the stand roar.
And in a seat near the back, beside a window, sat a young man in a gray team jacket with his hood down.
He was not waving. He was not smiling, either. He was looking out at the faces on the street, one by one, as the bus rolled past, and the expression in his eyes was something that Lucia would try to describe for weeks afterward and never quite manage.
