"I'm ready."
Pep stood.
He came around the desk slowly, stopping beside Lukas' chair. Then he placed a hand on Lukas' shoulder, firm but not heavy.
"I know. I believe you are." His voice softened slightly. "I will set the stage for you. You keep doing what you are doing."
Lukas looked up at him.
"I will."
Pep gave his shoulder a light squeeze, then stepped back.
"Good. Go. Omar is waiting."
Lukas stood, thanked him, and walked out.
When the door closed behind him, Pep remained standing for a moment, looking at the place where Lukas had just been.
Then he turned slowly toward the screen and the tactics board.
Something about the boy had pulled memory loose in him.
Not the derby. Not the headlines. Not the noise from English television, or the sudden certainty from journalists who had been waiting to doubt and now rushed to praise. It was something older than that. A feeling he had almost forgotten, or perhaps had trained himself not to expect too often.
