The door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the roar from outside like a knife. The Mainz dressing room was thick with heat and frustration, boots scraping against tiles, players dropping onto benches, towels being yanked over heads. Before anyone could even catch their breath, Bo Henriksen was already in the middle of the room.
"Look at me," he snapped, clapping his hands once, sharp and loud. "Look at me."
Silence followed, broken only by heavy breathing.
"Where is the intensity?" he went on, voice rising. "Where is the fight? This is our stadium. Our crowd. And you're letting a sixteen-year-old run the game like it's a training session."
He pointed toward the door, toward the pitch they had just left.
"They come here with nothing to play for in the league and we let them feel comfortable. We let them settle. We let one boy decide everything."
Henriksen paced now, hands moving, anger barely contained.
