The stadium roared as the teams emerged from the tunnel, but Nick Pope barely noticed. Underneath the floodlights, his face stayed unreadable—focused, tuned in, already visualizing the first save.

From the bench, the backup keeper called out, “You’re in the zone already, huh?”

Nick glanced over, cracking a small smile. “Only way I know how to be.”

He jogged into his penalty area, tapped the crossbar twice, then crouched and scanned the pitch like a hawk. To the defenders lining up in front of him, he spoke in clipped, low tones.

“Talk to each other. Keep the line tight. I’ll handle the rest.”

A few minutes into the match, a fast break came crashing through the midfield. The opposing striker unleashed a rocket toward the top corner.

Pope didn’t flinch. His gloves met the ball mid-air with a thunderous slap, sending it sailing over the bar. Calmly, he stood and reset his stance.

No theatrics. No fist pump. Just a quiet nod to the defense.

Business as usual.