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Scott sat in the dim hotel room, the streets of Mostar a low hum beneath the window. His notes from the interview still lay scattered...

The office smelled of old wood, a haze still hanging in the air despite the window cracked open. Across the desk sat Sefkija Vila, sharp...

Scott had the phone in his hand, thumb hovering over the last call. He almost pressed it, almost gave Alihodžić his answer, whatever...

Scott sat with Peter, Marcin, and Blazej later that evening in a small cafe. Three coffees, one half eaten pasty sat there along with...

The call came on a damp Thursday morning. Scott almost let it ring out, thinking it was another agent sniffing around on Łęczna’s...

Scott Lanowski is no longer the man on the touchline in Ślęza. The dugout, the shouts, the routines, all of it there belonged to someone...

The office was stripped bare now. The walls where tactics once hung looked naked, like they’d forgotten their purpose. Files had been...