The low rumble of the coach engine was the only steady sound after the match-day chaos.
Outside, the London night rolled past in streaks of yellow streetlights and deep shadow.
Declan Rice leaned back in his seat, one arm lazily draped over the armrest, the other rubbing his temple.
"Ugh… splitting headache," he muttered, eyes half-shut, voice thick with exhaustion.
Izan, sitting across the aisle, caught the words and allowed himself a quiet, knowing smile.
A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face, partly from the residual heat of the game, the guilt he was feeling, or partly from holding back laughter.
"What's so funny?" Declan said, his head still tilted back, eyes opening just enough to see the smirk.
"Nothing," Izan replied, trying to keep a straight face.
From a few seats behind, Odegaard leaned forward, a half-empty bottle of water in his hand.
"I think I know," the captain said with a grin.
