The locker room door thundered shut behind them, swallowing the stadium's roar into sudden silence. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of sweat, deep heat ointment, and the faint metallic tang of blood from a split lip someone had suffered in the first half. Thiago collapsed onto the bench, his jersey clinging to his back like a second skin, the fabric darkened with sweat. Around him, teammates peeled off their shirts with exhausted groans, their chests rising and falling like bellows.
The tile floor beneath his cleats was slick with water and discarded tape. Thiago pressed his palms against his knees, feeling the tremor in his muscles—not from fatigue, but from the electric current of a match still very much alive. His boots tapped an absent rhythm against the floor, the studs clicking like a metronome keeping time.
