The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.
Luis de la Fuente was already standing, one hand resting on the edge of his desk, the other adjusting the cuff of his crisp white shirt.
The office was exactly as Izan remembered it—no frills, no clutter.
A framed tactical board leaned against one wall, and two sets of boots on the floor beneath the window.
A thick folder sat open on the desk, filled with scouting notes, match reports, and player data. It was standard, methodical. All business.
"Izan," the manager greeted, stepping around the desk with a calm nod.
"Gaffer," Izan replied, returning the gesture.
They shook hands firmly—nothing prolonged, nothing showy. Just a mutual grip and a brief flash of eye contact that said everything else.
"Long summer," De la Fuente said simply.
Izan smirked. "Didn't feel long enough."
"Winning tends to make things fly by."
The manager motioned to the chair opposite his desk. Izan sat without hesitation
