Tom gave them the day off.
No early tactical breakdowns, no video analysis, no training sessions in the rain. Just the freedom to breathe after a match like that. And for most of the squad, that meant one thing—celebration.
The hotel was alive with it.
Laughter echoed down the carpeted hallways, ricocheting off the walls like the joy was too much to be contained in any one room. Somewhere near the lobby, Davis and Carter were doing mock interviews in terrible German accents, waving around water bottles like microphones. They'd cornered a poor receptionist who looked too polite—or too scared—to walk away. Travis was filming it all for his YouTube channel, barely holding the camera steady as he doubled over with laughter behind the lens.
Even Sheamus cracked a smile—Sheamus, the eternally-stoic center-back—when someone handed him a slice of cake shaped like a football, complete with their club's badge piped on in colored frosting. Someone had gone all out.
