PREVIEW

... Fluorescent lights washed over the group of Spanish internationals clustered near the gate.

They were dressed down now—hoodies, caps, backpacks slung low.

The red kits were folded away, the rain-washed drama of the night a couple of days ago, already fading behind them like vapor trails.

Izan leaned against a column, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, a duffel bag at his feet.

Pedri wandered over first, a protein bar in one hand and a boarding pass in the other. ...

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