The air in the changing room was thick, not with sweat, but with a silence heavier than any tackle. The final whistle still echoed in Nathan's ears, a phantom ring that left an ache in his chest. Argentina 2 – England 1. The scoreboards wouldn't lie, no matter how much he stared at them.
Nathan sat on the bench, not bothering to change. His jersey felt like a second skin, soaked and clinging. He watched his teammates, their faces etched with a familiar mixture of frustration and disbelief. Phil Foden was kicking at a loose piece of tape on the floor, his jaw tight. Jude Bellingham stared blankly at his boots, shoulders slumped.
It wasn't just a loss; it felt like a statement from the universe. A reminder of what 'GOAT' truly meant, and how far he still had to go. Messi hadn't just scored; he'd made a point. A soft touch, a gentle curve, and the game had bent to his will. It was chilling.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Declan Rice.
