The AZ Alkmaar dressing room was tense. The players filed in, some shaking their heads, others wiping sweat from their brows. The echoes of the late goal still rang in their heads.
Gertjan Verbeek stood in the center of the room with his arms crossed, and eyes sharp. He wasn't shouting—yet. That was always a bad sign.
Reijnen dropped onto the bench, his jaw clenched. He could feel the eyes on him, but he didn't need reminding. He knew.
Alvarado sat nearby with a towel over his head. His fingers curled into fists. He had been so close. Inches of saving the penalty.
The only sound for a moment was the players' heavy breathing. Then, Gertjan Verbeek spoke.
"We let them back in." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "That was unnecessary and completely avoidable."
Nobody argued.
"We played well for 43 minutes." He paced slowly, scanning the room. "Controlled the game. Moved the ball well. Took our chances." He stopped and exhaled. "Then we switched off."
