Bradford Dressing Room, Halftime
The door thumps shut behind them. Cleats echo off tile. Someone exhales loudly, drops to the bench like their legs are made of gravel.
The air is thick—half steam, half tension. Shirts soaked through cling to backs and shoulders. Ice towels slap onto flushed skin. Roney peels off his top with a grunt and leans forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor.
Emeka stands, motionless, one glove still on. Fletcher paces. Richter sips water, eyes distant, his leg bouncing like it's still chasing something.
The room is buzzing—but only from the ceiling lights, that faint flicker-hum that always seems louder when no one talks.
Jake stands in front of the whiteboard, one hand on the frame. He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't clear his throat. Just speaks.
Jake:
"No panic."
A few heads lift.
"They're leaning forward—greedy. That means they're leaving something behind."
