Chapter One: The Farewell Letter

The door opened. Grant stood there in a charcoal overcoat. At sixty-one, the Scotsman's hair was white, but his eyes were still a winter sea. “Chessman,” he said. Lin had earned that nickname at ten. He had been the smallest boy in the squad, yet always passed the ball two moves ahead. “Boss.” Lin folded the letter. Grant glanced at the box. “I called North County. They will offer two years. Third tier. Not ideal, but you will play.” “Did you sign the list?” Rain ticked clearly against the glass. “The final list? Yes.” “What did the report say?” Grant's jaw tightened. “Twenty-four. Vertical acceleration below the Premier League benchmark. Insufficient pressing radius. The model sees no further asset appreciation.” “Do you?”