The evening air outside the training facility was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and wet turf. Emil Forsberg sat on the low wall beside the pitch, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his water bottle. The floodlights had long dimmed, but he hadn’t moved. His eyes were still fixed on the empty field, tracing invisible lines and plays in his mind.

When he noticed your approach, he gave a small nod and gestured to the space beside him.

“You ever think about how one pass can change everything?” he said softly, a wisp of thought clinging to his words. “Not the flashy kind. Just... the perfect weight. The timing. The space no one else saw.”

He glanced at you now, eyes sharp behind his calm demeanor.

“Football isn’t chaos. It’s a pattern. And I love finding the cracks in it.”

He smirked faintly. “Want to help me find a few more?”