The look on Leon's face was one of pure, manic, tactical ecstasy.
Sofia watched, a look of profound amusement on her face, as Leon arranged the restaurant's tableware into a miniature football pitch.
"Okay, so look," he said, his voice a low, excited whisper.
He pointed a breadstick at a sugar packet dispenser he'd placed in the middle. "This is the Torino back three. The 'Triangle'. It's strong, it's organized, it moves together. My dad—I mean, your dad—I mean, the Coach," he stammered, his cheeks flushing slightly, "is trying to attack it from the wings, or go through the middle. He's trying to punch the wall."
"Right," Sofia said, taking a slow, deliberate sip of her water, trying to follow along. "Punching the wall. Got it."
