Friday morning at the City Football Academy felt less like a training ground and more like a spa for billionaires.
Rio Lance sat in the players' lounge, staring at his espresso.
"Bit much, isn't it?"
Rio looked up. Kyle Walker slid into the booth opposite him, holding a cup of tea that looked tiny in his massive hands. The veteran right-back looked relaxed, leaning back with the confidence of a man who had sprinted past every winger in Europe for a decade.
"The foam?" Rio asked.
"The whole thing," Walker grinned. "The car. The number. The £60 million price tag. It's a lot of noise for a quiet lad from Leeds."
Rio shrugged, taking a sip. "I didn't ask for the price tag, Walks. Pep paid it."
"Pep pays for quality," Walker said, his expression turning serious for a second. "But tomorrow, at Wembley... the price tag disappears. It's just you and eleven guys in red who want to kick lumps out of you."
