I sought Dante out on the pitch - if you could call this shitty sandbox with a hole at the centre of it a real pitch – and found him stroking my damn whistle. “Dante!” I waved my arms to get his attention. “Bad boy!” I mocked then patted my knees. “Bring it back. Come on.” I made kissing noises at him and he smirked, promptly placing the whistle around his neck on the chain. “No, Dante,” I complained, serious now. I pushed a hand into my shorts pocket, taking out a few gold coins. It was like trading doggie kibble for the TV remote.
