[The next day.]
Rain never usually came, but the clouds hung low over East Rutherford, New Jersey, forming a soft grey ceiling above the stadium and the shining dark bus that rolled slowly into the MetLife Stadium's private entrance.
The Arsenal crest gleamed faintly on its side, catching the flash of cameras that lined the barricades.
Fans in red and white jerseys leaned over rails, waving flags and holding their phones high, shouting names, some clear, some swallowed by the crowd noise.
Inside, the bus was quiet but not silent.
A mix of nerves and focus sat thick in the air.
Even with four trophies already in the bag, the players still felt the weight of nervousness encroaching on them.
Saka, usually at the back, now sat near the front, one earbud in, bouncing his knee slightly to a rhythm only he could hear.
Further down, Martin Ødegaard leaned back with his head against the window, his eyes half-closed, his fingers tapping lightly on his thigh.
