The locker room at Cobham smelled of liniment, sweat, and quiet frustration. The clatter of boots on tiled floor echoed like restless thunder as the squad gathered after training. The Conference League final was less than a week away, but the energy inside the room felt volatile, as if one wrong word might spark a fire.
Nicolas Jackson sat slumped at his locker, scrolling through his phone. The headlines flashed mercilessly: Jackson misses again, Chelsea's wasteful striker under fire. He dropped the phone onto the bench with a sigh, rubbing his temples.
Across the room, Jadon Sancho laced his boots slowly, methodically, as if delaying the inevitable. For him, this was a shot at redemption. His Manchester United years had ended in ridicule, his return to the Premier League marked with skepticism. At Chelsea, he had moments—just enough to keep hope alive—but never the consistency to silence critics. He could feel eyes on him every time he touched the ball.
"Why so quiet, Jadon?" Reece James asked, pulling his shirt over his head. His voice was calm, but there was steel in it. He was the captain now, carrying a weight heavier than the armband.
Sancho shrugged. "Just thinking. Betis are no joke. We'll need more than tactics to beat them."
"That's true," Jackson muttered from his bench. "But we'll also need goals. And right now, the press don't think we have a striker who can deliver them."
His tone was sharp, defensive.
Sterling, leaning against the wall, smirked. "Ignore the press, Nico. They'll eat their words soon enough."
But Palmer, who had been tying his laces silently in the corner, finally spoke. "Sterling's right. But Nico—stop reading what they write. Every time you miss a chance, you can either listen to them or prove them wrong. Which do you want to do?"
Jackson looked up, caught off guard. Palmer wasn't his captain, wasn't even one of the veterans, yet his words cut deeper than any lecture.
"You talk like you've already won something," Jackson snapped.
Palmer didn't flinch. "Not yet. But I know what it takes. And I know what we've got here. We just need to stop playing like scared kids."
A murmur ran through the room. It wasn't arrogance. It was conviction. And in a squad fractured by doubt, conviction was rare currency.
Maresca entered then, his footsteps measured. He scanned the room, reading the tension in the air like smoke before fire.
"You think the world believes in you?" he asked quietly, without preamble. "They don't. They see weakness. They see division. They see players who've forgotten what it means to wear this badge."
His eyes landed on each of them, one by one. "But I see lions. Hungry lions. And hunger is more dangerous than comfort. Betis think they are favorites because we have fallen. But lions do not care about reputation. Lions hunt."
The silence was electric.
Reece James stood then, pulling the armband tighter around his bicep. "The gaffer's right. We've been mocked enough. They say this is a third‑tier trophy? Fine. Then let's win it so convincingly they choke on their words. Let's remind them who we are."
The players began to stir. Caicedo slapped his palms together. Sancho nodded firmly, his eyes alight for the first time that day. Even Jackson straightened, something sparking inside him.
Palmer leaned back, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He didn't need to say anything more. The fire had been lit.
Later, out on the training pitch again, the intensity was different. Tackles flew harder, runs stretched longer, voices rose louder. Every drill felt like a duel. Maresca didn't stop them. He wanted it that way. He wanted the edge, the fight, the desperation.
Sterling burst down the wing, cutting inside before firing a cross that skimmed inches past Jackson's head.
"Closer!" Sterling shouted.
Jackson shot back, "Then cross it earlier!"
Palmer intercepted the next pass and drove forward, threading the ball perfectly into Jackson's stride. Jackson hesitated only a second, then drilled it low into the net. The net rippled, and for the first time in weeks, Jackson's face broke into a genuine grin.
The celebration was rough, playful—Caicedo shoved him, Sancho clapped him on the back. The tension was still there, but it was transforming, no longer poison but fuel.
Maresca watched from the sidelines, his expression unreadable. Inside, though, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. This was what he needed—not harmony, not calm, but hunger. Hunger sharpened men. Hunger made them fight beyond themselves.
As training wrapped up, the squad jogged off the field, laughter breaking through the fatigue.
Palmer lagged behind, gazing at the empty goal Jackson had just struck. He whispered under his breath, almost a prayer: "Hungry lions don't starve. Not tomorrow."
And somewhere in the distance, in a stadium waiting for them in Wrocław, destiny sharpened its claws.