The Spanish locker room wasn't silent, but it wasn't loud either.
It was a controlled hum of focus—heavy breaths, the occasional murmur of conversation, the sharp hiss of water bottles being squeezed.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat and grass, bodies still pulsing from the war waged in the first half.
Izan leaned against his locker, rolling a cold bottle against his ribs.
Stones had caught him hard earlier, and though the pain wasn't enough to bother him, he could still feel it beneath his fingertips.
His goal had put Spain ahead, but that wasn't enough. Not yet.
Across from him, Rodri sat on the bench, hunched over, elbows resting on his knees.
His face was unreadable, but his mind was working through the patterns of the game—spaces, movements, the subtle shifts in England's approach.
He was already in the second half before it had even started.
Lamine Yamal, tying and retying his boots, finally spoke.
