The doors leading to the parking lot, hissed open behind them, releasing a gust of warmth into the freezing air.
"Man," Declan muttered, zipping up his coat to his chin, "this cold bites."
"You're built for it," Ødegaard grinned, nudging him with a shoulder.
"It's the heat that scares you."
"I'm not built for any of this," Trossard groaned.
"Snow is for slopes and ski lifts, not on matchdays. I almost broke my toe off when I met Baleba for the ball."
Saka jogged ahead, clapping his gloves together like it might scare off the cold.
"Move quicker, you lot! No point standing around unless you're trying to grow icicles on your eyebrows."
The cold was that kind of cold—dry January chill, all sharp edges, and quiet breath.
The snow wasn't heavy—just enough to coat the pavement, to crunch under boots and cling to collars.
The kind that made your fingers feel like glass if you stood still too long and most of them didn't linger.
Saka was already halfway to his Audi.
