Arnold was pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, still fuming from his run-in with Richarlison, muttering under his breath about the "dark arts."
"I should have just ignored him," Trent seethed, kicking a stray water bottle. "I let him get in my head. Stupid."
"Hey," Andy Robertson said, putting a firm hand on his friend's shoulder. "That's his whole game. He's a professional pest. He wants you angry. Don't give him what he wants."
"He's right," Virgil van Dijk's calm, authoritative voice cut through the tension. "He is irrelevant. We are better than them. We prove it with our football, not with our mouths."
Arne Slot stood in the center of the room, his expression a mask of cold, tactical analysis.
"They have identified a weakness," he said, his voice sharp.
"Not in our defense. In our discipline." He looked directly at Trent, his gaze intense but not accusatory.
