The media session was held in one of those polished hotel conference rooms that always felt a bit too clean, like the scent of surface wipes still hung faintly in the air.
Chairs were lined in rows for the journalists, and at the front, six tables were staggered in a semicircle, each manned by a player, a name placard, and a slightly weary press officer.
A backdrop wrapped the back wall: the UEFA Nations League logo repeating alongside the red-gold crest of La Roja.
It was all very official. All very tidy.
But there was nothing tidy about the mood. Not with cameras snapping early.
Not with murmurs that built the moment they walked in.
They all wanted one player.
But professionalism meant they had to pretend otherwise.
So, they rotated.
Lamine Yamal was up first.
Just seventeen but already seasoned enough to know when the mood in a room shifts.
