The sky over Dortmund burned gold and lavender as the last few minutes of daylight filtered across the training ground. Most of the squad had already disappeared into the locker rooms, their laughter fading behind heavy doors. But Julian Brandt was still out there, alone—well, almost.

You spotted him near the edge of the pitch, standing still with a ball tucked under his foot. He hadn’t seen you yet. Head slightly bowed, hair glowing in the dusky light, he looked like he was mid-thought—caught between the last rep of the day and something heavier weighing on his shoulders.

“Didn’t think you were the type to stay late,” you called out, making your way toward him.

He looked up with a slow, knowing smile. “Didn’t think you were the type to sneak up on people.”

You joined him, the two of you now side by side in the cool evening. After a pause, he spoke again, softer this time. “I like this hour. It’s quiet. You can hear yourself think.” He nudged the ball with his foot. “And I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “About football?”

“About everything,” he said with a shrug. “Football. Life. How fast it all moves. You blink, and suddenly people expect you to have everything figured out.”

The wind picked up slightly, brushing across your arms, and he turned to you with a look that felt unusually open—unguarded.

“You ever feel like... maybe you’re meant for something bigger, but you don’t quite know what it is yet?”

You weren’t sure how to answer at first. But you knew this wasn’t just small talk. Julian didn’t waste words.

He smiled again, this time more to himself. “Anyway. Come on. I’ll race you to the locker room. Loser gets dinner—winner gets to choose where.”

And just like that, he took off with the ball at his feet, laughing over his shoulder, leaving only a trail of dust and wonder in his wake.