The away dressing room at Old Trafford was a small, functional, soulless box.
The walls were a neutral grey, the benches were hard plastic, and the fluorescent lights hummed with a sterile indifference. It was a room designed to remind visiting teams that they were guests, not equals. But at that moment, it felt like the most important room in the world.
My players were slumped on the benches, their chests heaving, their kits dark with sweat. The room was a symphony of exhausted breathing, of men who had just run through a wall.
James McArthur had his head in his hands, not in despair but in the private, quiet ritual of a man who was already preparing himself to go again.
Aaron Wan-Bissaka, was staring at the ceiling, his eyes wide, processing the enormity of what he had just survived. Scott Dann, my captain, was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor, the quiet, focused stillness of a man who had been in wars before and knew this one wasn't over.
