The grass at Colney was slick from the morning dew, but the sun was climbing quickly now—sharp enough to start burning it off by the time the squad assembled at the center circle.
Most of the players now stood in clusters, light jogs, quiet chatter, a few with long sleeves, others in base layers.
It wasn't a full-contact day, but they knew Arteta wasn't the type to ease them back in with hugs and stretching bands.
He walked out from the tunnel, hands in his pockets, black training jacket zipped halfway, eyes already scanning the group before he said a word.
They gathered quickly.
"Two days," Arteta started, voice low but clear.
"Not much time, right?"
Some nods.
One or two shrugs.
"Enough time," he continued, "for a few of you to indulge."
His eyes cut across the group like a laser, stopping—without hesitation—on Jorginho.
A few stifled laughs broke out as Jorginho, chewing gum slowly, looked down at his midsection and sucked in his stomach.
