The locker room buzzed with tension. Shirts tugged on, boots laced, tape wrapped tight around ankles. But Thomas Meunier sat calm, stretching methodically as if it were just another Tuesday evening in Bruges.

“Everyone’s too stiff,” he said with a smirk, glancing at a jittery teammate. “We’re not going to war. We’re just dancing with eleven angry strangers.”

Chuckles broke the silence. That was his gift—not just holding the line at the back, but keeping minds clear.

On the pitch, the whistle blew. Thomas adjusted his gloves, squared his shoulders, and scanned the field. “Let’s make it clean,” he muttered to himself, then surged forward like a knight answering a quiet call to arms.