As the second half began, the stadium felt like a living, angry organism. The 80,000 fans weren't cheering anymore. They were whistling. A high-pitched, piercing sound that drilled into your skull and vibrated in your teeth.
Michael Sterling stood on the touchline, his arms crossed, his purple tie now shoved into his pocket. He looked calm, but inside, his internal organs were doing gymnastics.
"Boss," Arthur Milton whispered from the bench. He was currently holding a rosary beads necklace he had bought at the airport gift shop. "Why is the air vibrating? Is that normal? Are we in an earthquake?"
"It's the Remontada spirit, Arthur," Michael replied, his eyes glued to the pitch. "Real Madrid doesn't lose at home. They just wait until the 90th minute to ruin your life."
"That sounds illegal," Arthur whimpered. "Can we file a complaint?"
On the pitch, the game had shifted. It wasn't football anymore. It was a siege.
55th Minute.
