The training ground was quieter than usual that afternoon—grey skies, light drizzle, the kind of atmosphere that sank into your bones. You lingered by the bench, tugging at the strap of your shin pads, until a soft thump of boots behind you made you look up.

Joselu stood there, arms crossed, a towel slung over one shoulder, eyes calm.

“You looked lost during drills,” he said—not accusing, just… observing. “Long day?”

You hesitated. “Something like that.”

He gave a short nod and sat beside you. He didn’t say much at first, just tapped his fingers along his knee like he was counting the seconds in silence. Then: “When I first came back to Madrid, I didn’t sleep for two weeks. Not because I was nervous. Because I wanted it too much. That kind of pressure? It’s heavy. But it’s also… fuel.”

You looked at him. “How did you deal with it?”

Joselu shrugged. “One goal at a time. One pass. One sprint. You don’t win everything in one night. You just win today.”

He stood, offered you his hand to pull you up. “Come on. The pitch doesn’t care about nerves. And neither do defenders.”

As you jogged back to rejoin the others, he added over his shoulder, “But if you want a good cross, just make the run. I’ll find you.”