The email sat on Leon's laptop screen, glowing with the pristine, slightly intimidating aura of official UEFA correspondence. The words seemed to rearrange themselves, refusing to make sense.
[...the head instructor for this year's elite group will be... Mr. Cristian Chivu.]
Leon just stared, his mind a complete, silent void. He read the sentence again. And a third time. And then, he did the only sensible thing a man in his position could do. He let out a sound that was half a groan, half a high-pitched, hysterical laugh.
"Of course," he said to the empty office, collapsing back into his chair. "Of course he is."
His old coach. His former mentor. His Champions League final rival. His girlfriend's terrifying, leg-breakingly overprotective father. Was now going to be... his teacher. He was going to have to turn in homework. He was going to get grades.
