The door to the coach hissed open, and Leo stepped down onto the concrete.
The air was different there — colder, sharper, the way underground places always smelled of damp steel and anticipation.
Above him, the muffled roar of the crowd rolled like distant thunder. Not constant — alive. Swelling and dropping with every cheer, every echo of the stadium announcer's voice hyping the home end.
He could feel it under his boots.
The hum of thousands.
He swallowed.
Then, someone, a member of QPR staff in a navy track jacket, appeared at the ramp and motioned.
"This way, gents. Straight to the away room."
The team began moving, kit bags slung, expressions calm but unreadable. Leo stayed close to the middle of the group.
He caught glimpses as they moved — a flash of green pitch through a hallway gap, rows of blue and white shirts filling the stands, kids waving flags.
The announcer's voice cracked over the system, followed by a cheer.
