The alarm went off at half six, and he was already awake.
He'd been awake for a while, actually, which was its own kind of punishment, lying there in the dark with the game replaying in pieces behind his eyes.
The penalty.
The one that crept under De Gea.
And their Panenka that ended up in the hands of Ben Amos.
He'd seen it live, and he'd seen it again at midnight when he couldn't sleep and had pulled his phone out to watch the highlights, like someone pressing a bruise to check if it still hurt.
And it still hurt.
He got up, got clean and got dressed, turning on the television while the kettle boiled because Sky Sports was already going and he needed to know how bad it was out there.
It was bad.
"I'm going to be honest," Neville said, leaning forward in his chair with the expression of a man who had been thinking about this since the final whistle.
