"We're changing everything now," Yves declared, his voice slicing through the halftime silence.
Players lifted their gazes from their boots, hands, and the floor where they had been staring for the past ten minutes. The dressing room felt like a funeral. Cold concrete walls surrounded them, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the smell of defeat hung heavy in the air.
"Formation changes to three-five-two," Yves continued, grabbing a marker and wiping the tactical board clean. "Givet drops back. Rothen and Evra push higher. We need to flood their box."
Alonso raised his head. "Coach, they're picking us apart on the counter—"
"I know what they're doing." Yves's marker squeaked against the whiteboard. "But we can't play it safe anymore. Two goals down against Lyon? You don't come back with patience."
The Spanish midfielder's jaw tightened. He had been dominated by Juninho for forty-five minutes, made to feel ordinary. That hurt more than the scoreline.
