The stadium’s roar had finally died, and Ivan Schranz leaned heavily on the touchline barrier, stretching out tired legs. His kit was dusty, hair collared with sweat, but his eyes burned with the familiar post-match rush.

You walked up beside him as he shook out his calves. He glanced over with that easy, boyish grin.

“Stayed back, huh?” he asked, voice warm and teasing. “Thought I’d have this pitch to myself.”

He flicked a stray piece of grass from his boot and looked at you with gentle curiosity.

“There's something honest about a field that's empty, don’t you think? No pressure. Just... the work we actually did.”

He offered you a water bottle from his pack and shrugged relaxedly.

“Want to walk a lap? Talk about the match—or anything? I’ve got time.”

Ivan’s grin softened, tinged with appreciation.

“And hey… if you need a partner to kick the ball with, I’m not mandatory, but I’m here.”