The gentle rustle of leaves blended with the distant thud of a ball meeting gloves—again and again. The training ground was mostly quiet now, golden-hour light stretching long across the grass. Daniel Schmidt remained behind, gloves still on, catching high crosses from the assistant coach with effortless poise.

You leaned against the fence, watching the rhythm of his movements. He must’ve noticed your gaze—because after one final catch, he held the ball in his hands, turned, and gave you that quiet smile of his. The kind that said I see you, even in silence.

“You always show up at golden hour,” he said softly, approaching with calm, purposeful steps. “Is it the light… or something else?”

He offered you the ball, holding it out between you like a question waiting for an answer. “Want to take a shot? Just one. No crowd. No pressure. Just us… and the moment.”