They ran laps, stretched, passed the ball in tight circles. Voices echoed more than usual, every shout bouncing back from the stands. A misplaced touch sounded louder here. A clean strike echoed longer.
Toppmöller watched for a few minutes with his hands on his hips before lifting his whistle and blowing sharply.
The players gathered.
"We've done the hard thinking already," he said, voice carrying easily in the open space. "Today is about details. Corners. Free kicks. Movements. Timing. We polish what we started earlier this week."
He paced once, eyes scanning faces.
"This stadium won't win the game for them. We decide that."
A pause.
Then he stopped.
Uzun was standing there, eyes half-lidded, rocking slightly on his heels, very clearly somewhere else.
Toppmöller didn't raise his voice. He didn't even sigh. He simply took the pen from behind his ear and flicked it with practiced accuracy.
It bounced off Uzun's forehead.
Uzun jolted. "Ow!"
Laughter exploded around him.
