The home dressing room at Old Trafford smelled of wet grass and deep-heat when the players filed in at 2–0, and nobody treated it like a party.
Garnacho dropped onto the bench still breathing hard, a towel around his neck, grinning every time a teammate reached over to slap his shoulder.
Casemiro sat with far less fuss, unlacing one boot with the calm of a man who scored headers like this every other week, though the corner of his mouth kept twitching upward whenever someone mentioned it.
Mount stood near the physio table talking with the medical staff in a low voice, nodding along to something about his planned minutes rather than anything that had gone wrong.
Wet shirts hung dripping from hooks along the wall. Bottles lay scattered near a pile of discarded boots. On the tactical screen bolted above the benches, Palace's first-half shape still sat frozen mid-press, waiting for someone to wipe it clean and start again.
