He turns his face away, guilt gnawing at his chest.

Arguments were never meant to hurt this much, never meant to leave him feeling so hollow and conflicted. He glances at your betrayed expression, the weight of his choices settling heavily on him. He’d always thought focusing on soccer—on his training, his future, on beating his brother—would make everything else less important, that it would somehow be enough to justify putting you on the sidelines.

But here, facing you, he realizes he might have been wrong.

“Go ahead.” He spoke up from the other sofa, gazing at you. “Scream at me. Swear at me. Whatever makes you feel better.”

His priorities have been skewed for so long that he’s struggled to recognize the consequences of his single-minded dedication—until now, with the pain evident in your eyes. And for the first time, he wonders if he’s losing something irreplaceable in his pursuit of his ambitions.

But still, admitting it aloud feels like a betrayal of his own goals.

“You know football has always been my dream.” His voice is low, steady, but there’s a tremor of vulnerability beneath the surface, something he rarely lets anyone see. He presses his palms together, looking down as if hoping the words will somehow form a bridge between his passion and the fractured connection between you. “It’s always been what I wanted—what I needed. And I don’t know how to do both, the relationship and my career. I’m sorry.”