Izan smirked as he typed back,
"How'd you ever convince yourself you'd win between the two of us anyway?"
He didn't get a response immediately.
The three dots flickered on and off.
Typing. Paused and then, typing again.
Then another message slid in — but this one wasn't from Lamine.
It was Jude Bellingham.
"London's weather still as nice this time of year?" it read. "Asking for a friend."
Izan scoffed under his breath.
Like, Birmingham was a different country.
He locked the phone and leaned back, eyes still on the screen ahead.
"Depends on what your business is here. If you are coming to take something from London, then the weather might not be favourable for you."
Then Mikel Arteta walked in.
The room quieted almost instinctively.
He stood in front of the screen, hands behind his back.
"Well," he started, voice steady. "Now we know who we play in April."
A few heads nodded.
"That's good. But before we get there…" He paused slightly, letting the weight settle.
