The locker room was quiet. Bastian was already there, of course. He was not stretching. He was just sitting at his locker, drinking a black coffee, and staring at a wall. He looked like a very large, very tired statue.
"Professor," Bastian grunted as Alex sat down. He looked at Alexs limp. "You are broken."
"I am not broken," Alex said, wincing as he bent over to unlace his shoes. "I am... stable. But... sore."
"Good," Bastian grunted. "This is the feeling of winning ugly. You are not a duck. You are a small, tough... rock. This is good."
Alex felt a huge surge of pride. Bastian had called him a rock. This was a good day.
The locker room slowly filled up. It was like a hospital ward. Harry, the captain, walked in, holding his back. "Morning, lads. I feel like I am ninety years old. That was not football. That was... a fight in a car park."
Antoine was the last to arrive. He looked, as always, like he had just finished a photo shoot. But even he was limping, just a little.
