The locker room was still.
Laced boots tapped softly on the tile.
Players leaned over bags, adjusted tape, and checked shin pads.
Shirts hung pressed and untouched, names gleaming on backs like banners before a battle.
Every breath measured. Every thought tuned towards the oncoming battle.
Arteta stood near the tactics board, arms behind his back.
He didn't shout. He didn't pace.
"You don't need new words today," he said, voice even.
"You already know what's in front of you."
Eyes lifted toward him.
"You know what it means to play for this badge. What it takes. And what it says when you do it right. Not just for the table. Not just for the fans. But for yourselves."
He let that sit for a second.
"Go out there and win the three points for yourself."
At that moment, a knock came at the door.
One of the backroom staff stepped in, holding a black box with the Adidas logo printed in clean matte white.
