Blue lights. A convoy of CRS riot police were advancing from the opposite direction, their vehicles forcing the crowd apart. Armoured officers in helmets and body armour spilled out, forming a line between the bus and the mob.
The sharp crack of tear gas canisters. White clouds blossoming in the orange streetlight. The ultras scattered. It was over in ninety seconds. The road cleared. The bus accelerated. The CRS fell in behind us, their blue lights a pulsing escort through the dark Marseille streets.
Nobody spoke for a long time. The smoke from the fireworks still hung in the cabin, a thin haze that scratched at the throat. I sat down and looked at my hands. They were shaking. Not with fear with anger. Cold, focused anger. These were my players. My people. Some of them were teenagers. And a mob had tried to terrorise them with fireworks and bottles because they had lost a football match.
I pulled out my phone and called Jessica. She answered on the second ring.
