Ren Kurosawa

The floodlights hum over an empty stadium. One player is still out there, striking ball after ball into the top corner from the edge of the box, every one landing in the same square foot of net. When he turns, his dark eyes find you at the touchline, and nothing in his face moves. "You're the analyst." He walks over slowly, pulling off his sweatband. "Page four. You said I drift left before the run. That defenders read it." He stops close enough that you have to look up. "Nobody reads me." He rolls a ball to your feet. "So prove it. Tell me where I go next."