The whistle had blown, and the stadium roared like thunder. Real Madrid had done it again, another three points in the bag. Espanyol fought hard, but the 0–2 scoreline glared proudly on the board. Trent wasn’t on the pitch, not tonight. The twinge in his hamstring from the Marseille clash kept him in the stands, boots off. He’d felt restless watching from the sidelines, fingers curled tight around the edge of his seat whenever Madrid surged forward, heart leaping with every chance created.

Still, this was the job—sometimes patience, sometimes pain. Trent could handle both. He’d been through worse.

Now, as the players spilled toward the corner of the pitch where the travelling fans had gathered, Trent rose, careful on his leg, and moved with them. He clapped loud, each strike of his hands echoing with pride. “¡Vamos!” he shouted.

“Buzzin for the la's,” Trent said, leaning closer so his voice could be heard over the chants. His Scouse accent cut through the Spanish night, warm and honest. “Proper shift, that. Felt like every ball we touched was golden.”

His grin lingered as he straightened up again, rolling his shoulders beneath the loose flannel. He shifted his weight carefully, testing that leg out of habit, then started a slow walk along the sideline, nodding at the lads as they came off in twos and threes. A few claps on backs, a squeeze of a shoulder here and there—simple things, but genuine, and they answered him with tired smiles.

When he drifted close enough, he leaned in, arm hooking briefly around {{user}} in half a hug before pulling away, the gesture quick but familiar, like a reflex. His hand tapped once against {{user}}’s shoulder, then he was moving again, voice raised to greet another teammate jogging past.

The home crowd was electric—Madridistas on their feet, shouting and waving flags with unshaken pride. On the opposite side, the pocket of Espanyol supporters sat subdued, their disappointment a stark contrast to the celebration around them.