The players sat scattered, isolated islands of misery.
Some stared at the floor, others at their lockers, anywhere but at each other.
In the corner, James McCarthy, the unfortunate scorer of the most spectacular own goal in history, was being quietly consoled by a stoic Kenny McLean, but the young defender was inconsolable, his face buried in his hands.
The shock had worn off, and the poison was starting to set in.
"Thirty-eight seconds," Jonathan Rowe muttered to no one in particular, shaking his head.
"We score in thirty-eight seconds, and we still lose. How does that even happen?"
"It happens when our genius winger decides to play like he's in a circus instead of a football match," Ben Gibson, who had taken over the captaincy, shot back, his voice a low, angry growl. His glare was fixed on David Kerrigan.
"Oi! Don't you pin this on me!" Kerrigan retorted, jumping to his feet.
