"Sit down, Komi," Miranda hissed, dragging her gently but firmly by the wrist.
"You watched him win the Euros, remember? The Euros. Against England. This is just the Carabao Cup."
"I didn't really understand how big it was until after the game; otherwise, I would have collapsed!" Komi protested, still clutching the scarf like it was a stress ball.
"Which is why you're alive to tell the tale," Miranda muttered, flashing an apologetic smile to the couple behind them who had just gotten a faceful of Komi's flailing hands.
"I'm really sorry," she added in a low voice, before turning back to the pitch, voice clipped.
"Now sit, breathe, and let your genius child work."
Komi grumbled something again, but relented, folding her hands in her lap as Hori leaned over and whispered, wide-eyed, "Mum, that cut was filthy. Like, Trent's gonna have PTSD. He's gonna check his mirrors before crossing the road."
Miranda didn't respond.
