A sudden knock rattled the door.
"Oi, Izan! The nerves catch up with you finally? Arteta wants a word—speech before we head out."
Izan straightened, grabbed a towel to wipe his face, and cast one last look at the sink as though the light might return.
Then he pulled open the door, shoulders squared, and stepped back into the main space of the locker room, still towelling his damp face before sliding down onto the bench between his kit bag and the water bottles stacked at his feet.
Saka, lacing up with a grin tugging at his mouth, glanced up.
"What's this then? You hiding nerves in there?" he teased, his voice light but carrying through the tense air.
Izan opened his mouth, smirk half-formed, but before he could reply, Arteta's sharp clap cracked through the space like a whip.
Every head turned.
The manager was on his feet, clipboard shoved aside, his gaze sweeping across them with that fierce intensity that seemed to strip excuses bare.
