The away dressing room at Stade de la Meinau felt even smaller, the weight of defeat pressing against its walls. Steam rose from discarded shirts, and ice packs crackled against bruised shins. Twenty-two men sat in various states of physical recovery and mental processing.
Jake entered last, surveying the room before speaking. No tactical board was needed. No grand gestures. Just truth delivered with surgical precision.
"They've shown everything now," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. "No more surprises from them."
Silva lifted his head from his hands, and Richter paused to rewrap his ankle tape. Every player focused intently on their manager's words.
"Thirty minutes of good football gets us level on the night. Sixty minutes gets us through to the final."
Jake moved toward the tactics board, drawing simple arrows over Strasbourg's formation.
