[The Dressing Room. 00:20 CEST.]
Chaos. Beautiful chaos.
Emma was up on a bench beside Iza, the pair of them filming the carnage on their phones, my medal swinging round her neck every time she laughed.
POP. POP-POP.
The alcohol-free came out by the crate, the club's habit since Wembley, ours now, and this time it was Konaté who sprayed first. Konaté, who three months ago did not know what the spray felt like, up on the physio table emptying a magnum over the whole room with his face like thunder and his heart like Christmas.
FSSSSHHHH.
The rest of it I could not give you in order if you paid me, a room gone to noise and singing in four languages, Mandanda conducting it off a kit hamper because a keeper going home to Marseille gets to conduct whatever he likes.
Olise sat in the corner with his medal still on and his phone against his ear, and through everything, through all the noise, you could see his mouth making the same shape over and over.
Dad. Dad. Dad.
