The silence in the red and white's dressing room was nothing like the silence at halftime.
During halftime, it had been heavy with disappointment.
This was something else, thinner and more fragile, a silence made of people who had just won a match, yet could not feel it. The victory was there, somewhere underneath, a warm coal that nobody dared to blow upon. On top of it lay the cold residue of the last half hour.
Unai sat on the edge of the treatment table with a small white dressing taped to his temple.
The physio had cleaned the cut and closed it with two adhesive strips, and had shone a light into his eyes and made him follow her finger left and right. Her verdict had been brisk. A superficial wound, no concussion, a headache that would pass.
He had not said much since.
Daniel sat beside him with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor, still trembling faintly from head to foot.
