A soft knock came at the dressing room door, just barely heard over the low hum of players unwinding, murmuring among themselves, untying boots, and tugging at soaked kits.
The door cracked open, and a staff member leaned in, expression hesitant.
"Mikel," he said carefully, "they're asking if you'll attend the press conference."
Arteta didn't look up right away.
He was sitting on the edge of the bench near the far wall, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight.
His brows were still knit, jaw still locked with the same frustration he'd worn at full-time.
Without shifting, he replied flatly, "Not tonight."
The room went quiet for a moment.
"You sure?" the staff member asked.
Before Arteta could double down, Carlos Cuesta stood from where he'd been leaning near the back of the room.
He crossed to Arteta slowly, lowering his voice so the others wouldn't hear.
"I know you're angry," Carlos said.
