The UEFA headquarters in Nyon, Switzerland, smelled of expensive carpet and bureaucracy.
Alex sat in the auditorium. He was wearing a navy suit. He looked like a manager.
Next to him, Mark was wearing a suit too. But he had cut the sleeves off.
"Mark," Alex whispered. "Where are your sleeves?"
"Aerodynamics!" Mark whispered back. "If I need to run to the stage to complain, I cannot have fabric resistance! Also, it is hot in here. Too many old men breathing."
"It is air-conditioned, Mark."
"I am a furnace of anticipation!" Mark said, fanning himself with a croissant.
The Champions League Draw.
Como 1907. The miracle champions of Italy. They were in Pot 1.
The UEFA official spun the glass bowls. The balls rattled.
"And in Group C..." the official droned.
He pulled out a ball.
COMO 1907.
"That is us!" Mark cheered, standing up. "CHAMPIONS OF THE LAKE!"
"Sit down, Mark," Alex hissed, pulling him down.
"Next," the official said. "From Pot 2..."
He swirled the balls.
