[Halftime]
The heavy door to the Emirates' home dressing room swung open with a dull thud as the Arsenal players filed inside in ones and twos, boots clattering against the tiled floor.
Shirts clung to their backs with sweat, shorts streaked with blades of damp grass, and almost at once the room filled with the low murmur of tired voices.
Declan Rice dropped onto a bench, peeling off the tape on his wrist and tossing it into his cubby before leaning back with a long exhale.
Jurrien Timber, on the other hand, was already unlacing his boots, shoulders rolling as the tempo and the physicality of the first half caught up with his body.
Others moved slower, lingering as if their thoughts were still caught somewhere on the pitch.
"Man," Odegaard muttered, wiping at his face with the bottom of his shirt, his voice tight with frustration.
He sank down beside Izan, who had just set his water bottle against the wall.
