The dressing room was still celebrating when I raised my hand.
The music was loud. Zaha's playlist, the bass vibrating through the walls, the rhythm making the water bottles rattle on the treatment table.
Sakho was leading a chant that appeared to be in French, Creole, and English simultaneously, the words incomprehensible but the meaning clear.
Benteke was sitting in his locker, staring at the floor, still processing the missed chance, until Abraham sat beside him and said: "You'll score the next one, big man. I'll set you up myself."
Benteke looked at the nineteen-year-old, and something in his face softened, and he nodded. Kovačić was accepting congratulations from Neves, who was holding both the Croatian's shoulders and saying something that made them both laugh.
I raised my hand. The music continued. Sakho continued. Nobody saw me.
"Oi." Dann's voice. The captain's voice. Quiet but carrying. The room stilled. The music lowered. Twenty-nine faces turned to me.
