Footbal: Arsenal - Chapter 55: The Real Madrid Dressing Room: Are You Lot Going to Start Fighting? (Patreon)

Back in the dressing room, Kieran and his teammates began rehydrating, drinking water and squeezing down energy gels to restore their strength.

Kieran had eaten the stuff regularly in his previous life, but he'd never managed to get used to it, even now. Every mouthful made his face twist in misery. The texture was as physically unpleasant as the sound of fingernails scraping across a blackboard.

His teammates took one look at his expression and burst out laughing.

The Arsenal dressing room was in wonderfully high spirits, even if the atmosphere was being built entirely at Kieran's expense.

Wenger had planned to calm his players down quickly after the rush of the first half. Now he realized he didn't need to. By the time they'd finished laughing at Kieran, the feverish excitement of the match had already faded.

He nodded with satisfaction.

With only fifteen minutes available at halftime, he had no intention of wasting any. He moved into the center of the room and addressed the players.

“Lads, you did well in the first half. I want to see more of the same after the break.”

“Stay focused. Don't get complacent. The overall plan remains the same, but we need to adjust a few details.”

“Gibbs, I want you pushing further forward in the second half. When Kieran moves away from his position, you need to fill that space on the left straightaway.”

Gibbs nodded firmly and patted Kieran on the shoulder beside him, making it clear he had the job covered.

“Kieran, keep moving between midfield and attack as the situation demands. But remember one thing. Watch what the opposition are doing with their feet. Don't give them an opening.”

Kieran's expression turned serious in an instant. He nodded carefully.

“Arteta...”

Wenger moved briskly through the rest of the squad, explaining what each player needed to watch for and which positional adjustments to make. His players answered him with confidence.

Meanwhile, the atmosphere in the away dressing room was far less cheerful.

Madrid's players were in no mood to be near one another, but they had no choice. They were practically packed together.

Arsenal, just like their North London rivals Tottenham, had put a little thought into making life unpleasant for visiting teams.

Wenger had personally helped design both the home and away dressing rooms and had been deeply involved in the details.

The home dressing room had warm colors and a long, semicircular bench. Players could sit close enough to feel like a team while still enjoying plenty of space.

In the visitors' room, only the closeness remained.

The seats were crammed together, with wooden crates and simple benches that made the place resemble an ordinary secondary-school changing room. The showers occupied a little over twenty square meters, with more than a dozen showerheads crowded into the space.

There were only four toilet places, without partitions. Anyone using them had to abandon all hope of privacy.

Treatment facilities? Almost nonexistent.

The discomfort was quite deliberate.

This was hardly unusual at Premier League clubs. English football wasn't merely intense and physical on the pitch. Even the design of an away dressing room could be another front in the battle.

Madrid's players were squeezed shoulder to shoulder in those conditions. Conceding a goal had already put them in a foul mood, and the cramped room only made them angrier.

Mourinho stood in front of them. The moment the door closed, he folded his arms and frowned.

“Do you think conceding one goal is nothing?”

“Wonderful work. Just one goal conceded in an entire half. I'm sure the supporters think you're brilliant. They must be so proud of you, aren't they?”

The bite in his words, combined with his arrogant expression, sent a wave of anger through the Madrid players.

Casillas, the club captain, kept himself out of it. He hadn't played, so there was no way to pin the goal on him.

Ramos, on the other hand, was furious. He stood up at once.

“Boss, I think we gave everything in the first half to keep them from scoring. Yes, Arsenal got one, but who in the world could promise to stop a goal like that?”

Mourinho gave a cold laugh. “Are you a Real Madrid player?”

Ramos was baffled. “Of course I am.”

“Then as a Real Madrid player, your standard for success is just to try your hardest to stop the other team? That's full marks in your book?” Mourinho asked scornfully.

“Is that what Madrid want? Is that what our supporters want? They want you to score goals! They want you to win! Otherwise, what gives you the right to wear this shirt?”

“And stop using Kieran's goal as an excuse. You say nobody could have stopped his shot. Fine. Then why didn't you work to make it 1-1? Why did the half end 1-0?”

Ramos had no answer.

He sat back down and glared at Mourinho.

The conflict between Madrid's Spanish contingent and their manager had already come into the open.

When Mourinho had tried to uncover the person leaking information from the dressing room, he'd given Casillas and Ramos different team sheets. It wasn't because he thought one of them was trustworthy and the other wasn't. In his eyes, both men were equally likely to be responsible. They were the two players he suspected most.

Even in ordinary circumstances, Mourinho only discussed tactics with Ramos because he had no better choice of captain to turn to.

Ramos had publicly criticized his tactics as overly conservative. A proud man like Mourinho had little affection for someone who spoke about him that way. But if he refused to use Casillas, the supposed mole, his remaining option was Ramos, the vice-captain.

Madrid had now effectively divided into two groups. On one side were the Spanish players. On the other was the Portuguese-Brazilian contingent, including Cristiano Ronaldo, Pepe and Marcelo.

Mourinho's sharp tongue had alienated plenty of people, though. Ronaldo, Marcelo and Di María had all received harsh criticism from him. Even the Portuguese-Brazilian players could hardly be called his loyal inner circle.

Mourinho didn't care about any of it.

He wanted his team to score. He wanted to win matches.

And so he kept provoking them.

“I think I can hear what you're all thinking,” he said. “You believe nobody could have stopped Kieran's goal. So what, are you frightened of him now?”

“Frightened of a sixteen-year-old who's played in only two Champions League matches? This is even his first start in the competition.

“What a historic occasion! First Champions League start, and he scores a bicycle kick worthy of the history books. He leaves Real Madrid's players in pieces, without a shred of confidence between them.”

“I imagine the papers would love that headline.”

“What do you think? Has anyone got a better one? Go on, let's hear it. I'd love to judge your efforts.”

Mourinho had succeeded in making every player in the room angry.

But none of them could refute him.

They weren't exactly afraid of Kieran. Still, who among them could claim that the youngster hadn't shocked them?

Toward the end of the first half, they'd been as jumpy as startled birds. Their confidence and presence on the pitch had visibly shrunk.

Now Mourinho's self-destructive campaign of provocation had stirred their wounded pride into something fiercer. They were determined to prove him wrong.

For a moment, the only sound in the Madrid dressing room was the heavy breathing of angry men.