The adrenaline crash was real.
It hit Rio about forty-five minutes after the final whistle, right as he sat down on the bench in the dressing room.
The noise was still deafening. Jack Grealish was currently standing on the center table, conducting a choir of kit men and physios in a rendition of Wonderwall that was so off-key it was technically a crime against music. Erling Haaland was sitting in his corner, staring at his Community Shield medal like it was a tasty snack he was considering eating.
Rio leaned back against his locker. His legs throbbed. His ribs, where Casemiro had introduced himself, felt like they'd been hit by a sledgehammer.
He looked down at his shirt. The sky blue was stained with grass, mud, and the sticky residue of expensive champagne.
"You look like shit, mate."
Rio cracked a tired smile. Phil Foden sat down next to him, holding a bottle of water.
"Thanks, Phil. You look like a model," Rio retorted, gesturing to Foden's perfectly gelled hair.
