I went in with nothing.
Nobody looked up. 11 men who had just played 45 minutes of a World Cup final sat around the walls of that room dripping onto a mopped floor, and not one of them looked at the door.
The tap was still running. I walked the length of the room and turned it off.
Then the only sound was the rain on the high windows, coming harder than it had all night, and 23 men breathing.
Hakimi sat with a towel round his neck and his jaw set and his eyes red. Sofyan had his elbows on his knees and his head so far down I could see the top of his spine. Benatia could not sit. He stood at his peg with his arms folded, facing the wall.
Rebecca was on her knees in front of En-Nesyri with both thumbs working into the top of his leg. He was looking at the ceiling.
Steam came off all of them. The room smelled of rain and wintergreen and wet grass.
