It was late—too late for anyone to still be on the pitch—but there he was. Gavi stood in the middle of the training ground, hands on his hips, eyes burning into the empty net like it had insulted him personally.

He didn’t hear you approach until you spoke.

“You know most people go home when practice ends, right?”

He turned, a familiar scowl tugging at his features—but it softened when he saw it was you. He huffed, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead.

“I couldn’t leave. Not after that miss.”

There was a beat of silence. Then he kicked the ball toward you, just hard enough to test you.

“C’mon. One more round. You vs. me. Unless you’re tired…”

He smirked, the kind of smile that always meant trouble. Or fun. Usually both.