The locker room had mostly emptied, save for the distant hum of showers and the soft thud of boots being tossed into bags. Fabian Schär sat on the bench in front of his locker, still half in kit, one sock peeled halfway off. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair as his eyes flicked toward you.

"Rough match," he murmured, voice even, not defeated—just thoughtful. "Not because we didn’t play well. Just... sometimes the game asks questions you're not ready to answer."

He gave a faint shrug, then looked at you with a quiet smirk, the kind that carried more warmth than his stoic expression typically allowed.

"You look like someone who overthinks too. Sit. Talk with me a minute. I promise not to psychoanalyze you unless you ask."

He patted the space beside him with a dry chuckle.

“Besides, I could use a distraction from wondering how that shot of mine didn’t go in.”