You don’t leave after practice ends. The others do, filing out one by one, laughing and dragging their gear behind them, but you linger, the taste of failure still sitting heavy on your tongue after another brutal round of drills. Your broom leans against the bench beside you, your hands sore and raw from the cold. You tell yourself you’re just catching your breath, just giving yourself a minute.

“The pitch cleared out ten minutes ago,” comes Theo’s voice from somewhere behind your shoulder, low and unreadable.

You don’t turn around. “I know.”

There’s a pause. When he steps into view, he’s still in his gear, gloves off, arms crossed casually across his chest. His hair’s windswept and damp at the edges, a smear of dirt streaking his jawline. He doesn’t look tired. He never does.

“You stayed late yesterday, too.”

You shrug, brushing dirt off your knee. “Guess I’m not as good as the others.”

Theo doesn’t argue. He just watches you for a moment, gaze unreadable, before walking closer. “Your footwork’s sloppy when you’re frustrated. And you drop your shoulder before every right turn. Telegraphs your move.”

You glance up, biting back the sting in your chest.

“But,” he adds, voice slightly lower, “you’re fast. Smarter than most of them. And you don’t flinch when I push harder. I don’t waste my time with people who break easy.”