PSG is a honeypot for glamorous hangers-on, but to blame the France superstar for his underachievement feels absurd
Europe, several years from now. A thin light strains through the cracked and grimy window. The air is gritty with smoke. The man wakes. He is stiff, cold, tired, afraid. Outside is devastation, the city in ruins. Everyone has fled. Even the sirens sound more distant now. With a trembling hand, the man withdraws his phone from his pocket. He must be sparing with the battery, he knows, but awkwardly he turns it on.
Perhaps this morning there will be signal. Perhaps this morning he will find out how far the crisis extends. The screen flickers. He hears the low ping before he sees the bars. A miracle. He has connection. There is a news alert. His fingers tremble as he taps. For a moment his weary eye can not quite take in the headline he sees. But then it shudders into focus: “Mbappé,” it says, “threatens to quit PSG.” Some things, at least, never change.
