Inside the dressing room, the sound of studs on concrete faded fast.
No one was slumped.
It wasn't that kind of room.
The first half hadn't broken Arsenal.
But it had exposed something—small cracks, just enough to matter.
Rice sat forward, elbows on his knees, while Saka stood stretching out his back, breathing steadily and sipping slowly from a bottle.
Izan leaned against the cool tile, silent, watching the floor, boots still laced tight.
Arteta entered last, eyes scanning his men for a while.
He walked straight to the board, picked up the marker, and circled three zones in black.
"We're close," he said. "But not clean."
He pointed at the first circle.
"Here, when we're building from the back, they're not pressing full. They're holding a mid-block and waiting. Trent is showing, but he's gambling. He's baiting you."
He looked at White.
Ben nodded. "I saw it too late."
