In This Life I Became a Coach

The locker room door creaked open on tired hinges.

Muted footsteps dragged across the floor, damp soles smacking tile, cleats thudding against lockers as players filed in, each carrying the weight of a match they didn’t quite understand.

Bottles cracked open, hissing briefly before the silence swallowed them.

Sweat pooled at the base of benches. Jerseys stuck half-peeled to tired shoulders. No music played. No laughter floated. Only the shallow breathing of men still carrying adrenaline without knowing where to put it.

Giuly collapsed onto a bench near the center, toweling off his face with slow, deliberate movements. Across from him, Evra slid his shinguards out one at a time, setting them carefully beside his boots as if handling glass.

A few glances flickered through the room. Not many words.

The scrape of Velcro, the low squeak of skin against leather, the constant drip-drip of showerheads just out of reach — these filled the space where conversation normally lived.

Then Rothen’s voice cut through it, sharp, carrying more than just frustration.

"We looked stupid out there."

The words hung for a beat too long, bouncing off the walls, skidding across wet floors.

Someone chuckled — short, bitter. Another joined in, almost involuntarily.