Gary allowed the emotional moment to settle, a brief island of humanity in the otherwise sterile, business-like atmosphere of the room, before his attention shifted, his gaze falling upon Semenyo.
The young winger, who had been watching the scene with a mixture of joy for Eze and terror for himself, flinched as if struck. He sat ramrod straight, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair so tightly his knuckles were white.
My stomach, which had just begun to unknot, clenched itself into a tight, painful ball once more. This was the moment I had been dreading. Semenyo was younger, rawer, far more inconsistent.
If Gary was only going to keep one of them, this was the axe-fall. "Antoine," Gary began, his voice losing the faint warmth it had held when addressing Eze, becoming once again clipped and serious.
