The dressing room at the Wanda was at sixteen degrees when we arrived at eight o'clock local. The heating had not been fixed. Rebecca had her five gel-pad heaters running inside the kit bags within ninety seconds. Steele was standing on the door so that nobody from the Atlético staff could come in unannounced.
The Atlético warm-up music started at twenty to nine. Loud enough to feel in the chest through the dressing-room wall. The same eight bars of Himno del Atleti played on a loop at a volume that was not designed for a stadium. It was designed for the room we were sat in.
Nobody talked. Nobody could have. Pato put his earphones in. Sakho was tying his boots very slowly. Konaté was reading the back of a gel-pad packet like it was scripture. Neves was bouncing a ball on his knee in time with the music because there was nothing else to do.
I waited until the music cut.
"Popey. Aaron, Ibu, Mama, Ben. Rúben and Mateo. Serge right, James in the hole, Wilf left. Benteke up top."
