At Beckenham, the squad was already there.
The players who had started in Milan two nights ago, the ones who had flown through the night and slept until noon yesterday and spent the afternoon in ice baths and on massage tables, were moving differently this morning.
Not sluggish. Not injured. Just careful. The particular, measured movement of athletes whose bodies had been pushed to the edge of their capacity and who were now being asked to push again in twenty-eight hours.
Sakho walked from the car park to the dressing room at a pace that was approximately sixty percent of his normal stride, which Rebecca noted on her tablet without comment. Tarkowski's knees were still strapped.
McArthur was walking normally, which for McArthur meant walking as though nothing in the world could hurt him, which was either true or an act so convincing that even Rebecca couldn't tell the difference.
