Inside the dressing room, it wasn't silence—but it wasn't noise either.
Just breathing. Deep, hard, frustrated breathing.
Some of the players were already out of their shirts, towelling off sweat and regret.
Others sat forward, elbows on knees, trying to relive that first half in their heads—figure out where it all slipped.
Dawson didn't shout.
He just waited.
He walked slowly, steadily, across the floor until every boot stopped tapping and every player had their eyes on him.
"We were the better team. For fifteen minutes. And then we let them walk back in."
His voice was low, direct.
"I'm not here to sugar-coat it. That was soft. Not the goal—that happens. I'm talking about what we did after. No bite. No response. We gave them space, we gave them confidence, and we gave the fans nothing."
He turned slightly and looked down the bench.
"Leo."
The boy who was in the process of grabbing an ice pack for Naylor stopped and then turned towards Dawson.
