The door shut behind Dawson with a soft, deliberate thud — louder than any words had been so far.
The room didn't speak but it was loud with tension.
A few players leaned forward, arms on knees, sweat streaking down their faces. The sound of deep breaths filled the silence.
A kitman dropped fresh water bottles in front of the bench and slipped out wordlessly.
Dawson stood near the centre of the room.
He didn't speak for several seconds and just stared at his men.
The starters.
The ones who were meant to be setting the tone.
"You lot need to hear something," he said finally, voice even but cutting through the air like a whistle on the pitch.
"I'm not your mate."
A few heads lifted.
"I'm not here to laugh with you in the corridors. I'm not here to post birthday messages on the club socials or make things feel warm when they aren't."
He took a step forward.
"I'm your boss. You work for me."
Another pause.
"And I work for someone bigger."
