The San Siro dressing room, which had been a carnival of joyous noise just two hours earlier, was now a tomb.
Alessandro Bastoni sat with his head in his hands, the image of his catastrophic mistake replaying in his mind on a cruel, endless loop.
Julián Álvarez, for the first time since anyone could remember, was completely silent, his usual wellspring of bizarre questions having run completely dry.
They hadn't just dropped two points; they had thrown them away with a casual, arrogant flick of the wrist, and the full weight of that failure was now crushing them.
The door opened and Coach Cristian Chivu walked in.The players braced themselves for the storm. They expected a hurricane of fury, a tirade that would strip the paint from the walls. They deserved it.
But the storm never came.
Chivu walked to the center of the room and stood there, his hands in his pockets, his face a mask of cold, hard calm.
