Chapter Three: Number Ten for the Bottom Club

Baptiste blew his whistle. “Enough.” “There are six minutes left!” Abou protested. “I've seen what I needed.” The coach walked to Lin. “You run like a forty-year-old, but you made ten forty-year-olds understand where to run.” “Did I pass?” “League match Sunday. On the bench. Sixty euros to appear, twenty more if we win. You wash your own shirt.” Lin extended a hand. “Deal.” At the top of the little stand, a young woman in a knitted cap closed her laptop. Emma Rocher was the club's only data analyst, video operator, and social-media manager. As she passed Lin, she spoke quietly. “You scanned the pitch forty-seven times in the final ten minutes. That's a professional midfielder's frequency.