At half time the dressing room smelled of Deep Heat and wet socks. Sarah drew City's midfield on the board and Bray did their corners. Rebecca was on her knees in front of Kirby with a roll of tape, because he had a blister he had told nobody about until he had his boot off.
Mitchell was in his place with his shirt off and a towel over his head, and his left sock was ripped from the heel to the ankle where Mahrez had stood on it.
I sat down next to him. Before I could say anything Chilwell dropped onto the bench on his left, still in his bench coat, and pulled the towel off his head without asking.
"You went down," Chilwell said.
"I know."
"Do not go down. That is all. He wants you on the floor. Every winger alive wants you on the floor. You are quicker than him, Ty. I am not. Stay up and let him go and then go and get it, because you can, and I never could."
Mitchell put the towel back on his head.
