The mixed zone of the Santiago Bernabéu was usually a place where dreams went to die.
It was a narrow, claustrophobic corridor lined with sponsors' logos, where millionaires with perfect haircuts explained why they lost to other millionaires with slightly better haircuts.
But tonight, it smelled of sweat, cheap adrenaline, and the distinct, sugary aroma of Arthur Milton's fear.
Michael Sterling leaned against the barrier, his purple tie undone and hanging around his neck like a dead snake. He felt lightheaded. The A-Grade Voice Projection Elixir had worn off, leaving his throat feeling like he'd swallowed a bag of razor blades.
"Boss," Arthur squeaked from beside him. The assistant manager was clutching a half-eaten bag of jelly babies like it was an oxygen mask. "Why are they looking at us like that? Did we commit a crime? I feel like we robbed a bank."
