The problem with buying a sanctuary to escape the madness of football is that the madness usually has a GPS tracker and drives a Bentley.
It was Monday morning. Michael Sterling was sitting on his new terrace, overlooking the serene Yorkshire lake. He was drinking coffee from a mug that didn't have a chip in it, wearing slippers that felt like hugging a cloud, and for the first time in three months, his heart rate was below 120.
He took a sip. He closed his eyes. He listened to the birds.
SCREEEECH!
The sound of tires tearing up gravel shattered the peace.
Michael didn't even open his eyes. He just sighed.
"Kenji," he whispered to the ducks on the lake. "Why are you like this?"
The front door of his new mansion banged open.
"MICHAEL!" Kenji Sato's voice boomed through the hallway. "WE HAVE A CRISIS! A CATASTROPHE! A FINANCIAL DISASTER OF THE BEST KIND!"
