The floodlights painted soft halos on the pitch long after training ended. Hattan stood near the halfway line, hooded against the evening breeze, gently juggling a ball with deliberate rhythm.

When he sensed your presence, he slowed and looked up, eyes reflecting mild surprise, then warmth.

“You stayed,” he said, voice calm and welcoming. “Thought you might’ve headed home.”

He kicked the ball toward you—not too fast, not too soft—just enough to invite your touch.

“I like nights like this,” he continued, stepping closer. “Quiet, almost sacred. No crowd, no noise. Just the ball—and whatever thoughts we bring with us.”

He paused, his gaze thoughtful.

“Want to walk the pitch with me? Or pass around old stories and new dreams? Up to you.”