Arteta's tone softened, though his stance didn't.
"You'll wash up, get yourselves together. Then a short lunch. After that, you'll meet the PR team at the Sobha Realty complex near here. Be sharp, be professional. You represent more than yourselves when you walk in there."
He gave a small nod, as if to underline his point, then turned on his heel and walked off toward the touchline, clipboard tucked under his arm.
For a moment, the squad lingered, exchanging quiet words as the message settled.
Some shoulders slumped; others rolled their back with resignation.
"Publicity again," Saka muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with the bottom of his shirt.
"They don't pay us enough for this."
"Bruh. You drive a Ferrari at 23. What do you mean?" Izan shot back, and a ripple of laughter cut through the fatigue.
"Still doesn't mean I want a camera in my face when I'm this sweaty."
