The echo of the full-time whistle still clung to the concrete like smoke as Jake Wilson stepped off the pitch and into the narrow passage that led to the dressing rooms. A UEFA official nodded silently as he passed. Jake didn't nod back. He didn't need to.
The hallway was dim and industrial—bare walls, the occasional flicker of a low ceiling light. But behind the steel door at the end, life pulsed.
The moment he pushed it open, it hit him. The steam, the thud of boots kicked off, the hiss of opened water bottles. The buzz of adrenaline, still unspent.
Richter was slouched in the corner, head tilted back against the tiled wall, his cheeks still flushed. Emeka sat with both elbows on his knees, staring into the middle distance, a bottle of water untouched in his hands. Bardghji had peeled off his jersey but hadn't bothered with a towel—he was still pacing slowly, shirtless, talking to himself.
