Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.
Emma had put the glass down on the floor and she had both hands over her face.
"Em."
"I am sorry."
"You are not sorry."
"I am not sorry at all, no." She was crying with it. "Danny, you have got a World Cup final and 5 trophies and a Netflix programme and 30 million people have watched you get hit in the mouth by a shield."
On that screen, in the Royal Box, a 32-year-old Spaniard in a Crystal Palace shirt was laughing so hard he had to hold on to Mamadou Sakho.
And behind him, all of them.
Sarah with the folder still under her arm. Bray wearing 2 medals. Marcus with his laptop bag on his shoulder in the Royal Box at Wembley Stadium. Rebecca with her arms folded, and Deano, and Ron in his own coat being held up by 2 physios.
Steve Parish 3 rows back with his hands on his own head.
Nobody in that box was looking at the shield.
"Right," Jones said, when they came back. "Thierry."
Henry had said nothing for 11 minutes.
"Navas," he said.
"Go on."
