He looked at his calendar. The coordinates were only six hours away by train. Most scouts looked for talent; Elias felt like he was being hunted by it. He closed his laptop, grabbed his coat, and deleted the email.
He opened the image first. It was a drone shot of a pitch carved into the side of a mountain, surrounded by mist. The grass was an impossible, glowing emerald. There were no stands, just a sheer drop into a valley. File: Soccer.Story.zip ...
Confused, he opened the text file. It wasn't a stat sheet. It was a set of coordinates in the Swiss Alps and a single sentence: “He does not play for the ball; the ball plays for him.” He looked at his calendar