In the fourteenth minute of the warm-up, Konaté pulled up.
He was running. A standard acceleration drill, the kind he had done a thousand times. He planted his left foot, drove off it, and felt something in his left hamstring. The same hamstring that had flagged amber in yesterday's session.
The same hamstring that Tom Yates had worked on for forty minutes last night. The same hamstring that Rebecca had declared green this morning but that she had added a condition to: "If he feels anything, anything at all, in the warm-up, I want the right to pull him."
He felt something. And Rebecca was beside him in four seconds.
She didn't ask a long list of questions. She had been watching him since the warm-up started. She had seen the fourteenth-minute sprint. She had seen the slight hitch in his stride on the twelfth.
