The tunnel was cooler than the pitch, but the heat still clung to them like a second skin.
Shirts soaked through, socks sagging, muscles already stiffening.
Leo walked in behind Whatmough and Sze, a quiet beat to his steps, the adrenaline finally starting to drain from his legs.
Inside the dressing room, the noise hit first, not wild, but charged.
Laughter.
Thumps of boots against benches.
Broadhead joking with Bennett about nearly falling on the volley clearance and Fletcher mimicking a diving header he never actually attempted.
McClean walked past Leo, a towel slung over one shoulder.
He gave him a light slap on the back, not hard, not soft — just solid.
"That's how you get your name on the team sheet," he said under his breath, then kept walking without waiting for a response.
Leo let a smile slip.
He sat on the edge of the bench and finally peeled his boots off.
Someone tossed him a water bottle.
He took a sip, then poured half over his head.
