The pitch was a blur of limbs and color. Players dropped to their knees, others jumped into the arms of teammates. The noise from Valley Parade hadn't dipped for a second since the final whistle—if anything, it had grown louder, feeding off itself, an echo of ecstasy rippling through the stands.
Jake Wilson, suit rumpled, tie half-undone, turned to the main stand and pumped his fist high into the air. Once. Twice. The roar that answered him felt like it might lift the roof off.
Then he turned and clapped his hands sharply—gathering his squad into a tight circle at midfield. Arms over shoulders. Chests still heaving. Mud and sweat and joy.
"Listen to that," Jake said, nodding to the stands. "That's your doing. We don't stop here. We go again."
The huddle broke, but the message lingered.
Inside the Locker Room
