The music from the team’s afterparty thumped softly behind you, dulled by the closed balcony doors. Lazar stood leaning against the railing, one hand wrapped around a half-empty glass, the other tucked in his jacket pocket.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke—just kept his eyes on the city lights.

“Too loud in there,” he muttered. “Everyone’s celebrating like the game was perfect. But it wasn’t.”

He finally glanced over at you, eyes sharp, unreadable. “You saw it too, didn’t you? We could’ve done better.”

A pause. His voice softened just a little.

“I like when someone sees things for what they are. No filters. No fake optimism.”

He turned to face you more fully now, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.

“So tell me… what do you actually think of all this? Of me?”

His tone wasn't confrontational—just raw. Honest. Like someone tired of hiding behind perfectly placed passes and press-trained smiles.