August 6 – The Flight Home
The flight back from Vienna was quiet, but not in defeat—more like a simmering frustration. Not the kind that broke teams, but the kind that sharpened them.
Jake Wilson sat near the front, arms folded, staring out the window though there was nothing to see but darkness. The match replayed in his mind in sharp fragments—Obi's miss, Richter's shot off the bar, Fletcher's desperate lunge before Rapid's counter. It had been so close.
Behind him, the players were lost in their own thoughts. Some had headphones on, drowning in music. Others sat in silence, gazing at nothing, processing the loss. Costa and Richter exchanged quiet words about movement and pressing. Obi scrolled through his phone, jaw tight. He was still thinking about that chance.
Jake exhaled through his nose. They had deserved more.
Yet, football wasn't about what was deserved. It was about what was taken.
