Wednesday morning at The Oaks was quiet. The kind of quiet that cost £4.5 million.
Rio sat on the stone patio of his new home, wrapped in a thick hoodie.
The Manchester rain was falling softly on the four acres of green grass, misting the goalposts he'd had installed in the garden yesterday.
He held a steaming mug of coffee, watching a squirrel bury a nut near the oak tree.
"Peace," Rio whispered. "Finally."
SLAM!
The French doors flew open.
"Rio! Madre de Dios! Put down the coffee! We are rich! Again!"
Leo Lance stormed onto the patio. He was wearing a suit. At 9 AM. In his own house. He was holding a tablet like it was a holy relic, his eyes wide and vibrating with caffeine and capitalism.
"Leo," Rio sighed, not turning around. "We were rich yesterday. We were rich the day before. What is it now? Did you sell my kidney?"
