The locker room door slammed shut, cutting off the noise from the stadium outside.
Michael looked around the room. His players were slumped on the benches, chests heaving.
The Championship was faster than anything they had faced in League One. It was brutal.
Mateo, their young Colombian left back, was sitting with his head in his hands. He looked small. He looked defeated.
Arthur Milton stood by the tactical board, his face unreadable. He looked at Michael and gave a tiny nod.
Michael walked to the center of the room. He did not shout. He did not throw a water bottle. He just waited until every pair of eyes was on him.
"Leeds are laughing at us," Michael said softly.
He saw Jamie Weston look up, a flicker of anger in his eyes.
"They think the first half was a fluke," Michael continued, walking over to stand in front of Mateo.
"They think our left side is weak. They think they can just run past us and score whenever they want."
Mateo flinched. He did not look up.
