The door creaked open with a gust of wind behind it.
A man stepped into the dim bar in Córdoba, dust on his boots, a jacket slung over one shoulder.
He shook off the outside air, then walked straight to the counter.
"Una cerveza, por favor.(A beer, please?)"
The bartender didn't answer right away—his eyes were glued to the television screen above the shelves of bottles, where players in red and white were already re-emerging from the tunnel.
The man followed his gaze.
A large flatscreen hung over the bar, brightening the room in pulses of red and green.
Tables had filled out, locals clustered together, pints half-finished, all heads turned toward the match.
"Gracias," the man muttered as he took his drink and leaned against the bar, eyes now fixed on the screen as well.
"They're keeping Olmo on," someone a few stools down said, a middle-aged guy with a Valencia scarf half-tied around his neck.
"He's been good, but I wouldn't mind seeing a bit of Izan drifting in."
