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... t. Thin beams cut across the pitch in slanted lines, like reminders that winter wasn't far. Bradford's warmup was sharp—passes zipped, boots crunched into the turf with intention—but Jake Wilson watched from the edge, motionless, hands buried in the deep pockets of his coat.
The energy after Strasbourg hadn't bled out. It had hardened. Shaped into something sharper.
He turned slightly, catching Paul Roberts' glance without a word needing to pass.
This wasn't about feeling ...
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