My Boy... a draw is a draw. Here, we only celebrate victories... Call me.
A year ago, a message like that from a man of Briatore's stature would have sent him into a spiral of anxiety. But now, with a Scudetto, a Coppa Italia, and two reality-bending wonder-goals under his belt, his reaction was different. He didn't feel fear. He felt a profound, almost comical sense of annoyance.
He looked at the message, at the imperious "Call me," and a slow, defiant grin spread across his face. He put his phone back in his pocket, took a deep breath of the fresh, salty air, and continued his walk. The king of Milan could wait. The prince of Liverpool was enjoying his day off.
He came home to find his mother in a state of high culinary alert.
"The circus is over," she announced, pointing a wooden spoon at him as he walked in. "The big, loud football match is finished. Now, it is time for peace. And for pasta."
"I thought we had pasta yesterday," Leon said, laughing as he dodged the spoon.
