The silence didn't feel so heavy anymore.
Thiago wasn't sure exactly when the change had happened. Maybe during yesterday's warm-up, when Kuba had suddenly clapped him on the back and growled something in Polish that sounded suspiciously like encouragement. Or maybe it was when Hummels - all six-foot-three of him, looking like he could bench press a small car - actually cracked a smile after Thiago slipped the ball between his legs during a rondo drill and muttered, "Cheeky little shit."
Either way, something had shifted.
The training ground glistened under a weak winter sun, the snow finally relenting after days of relentless fall. Patches of ice still clung stubbornly to the edges of the pitch, their jagged edges catching the light like broken glass. The air still carried that sharp, metallic bite of German winter, but there was something else in it now - something lighter, less oppressive.
