The stadium hummed with anticipation as the rain began to fall—light at first, then steadier, slicking the turf into something treacherous. Jorge Sánchez stood near the touchline, bouncing on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders loose. The armband wasn’t on his sleeve, but he played like it was.

“You good?” he asked, turning toward you with a sidelong glance. His tone was low, calm—but the fire in his eyes made the question sound like a challenge.

You nodded.

He smirked, tapping your chest lightly with the back of his hand. “Then let’s go make them regret testing our side.”

The whistle blew. In a blur, he was off—cutting down the flank with ruthless pace, checking back to recover a loose ball, then stepping in with a crunching slide tackle that ignited the crowd. He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t need to. His focus was locked on the next phase, the next sprint, the next test.

Later, in the locker room, he sat beside you, unwrapping tape from his wrists, his dark hair still damp with rain. “You held your own,” he said simply. “We build on that. Next match? We go even harder.”

He paused, then offered a fist bump. “Just don’t ever get comfortable. Not in this game. Not with me watching your back.”