The low hum of the stadium lights filled the empty pitch as Joško Gvardiol sat on the edge of the field, elbows resting on his knees, watching the last traces of daylight fade from the sky. His training gear was still damp with sweat, but he didn’t seem in a rush to leave. Instead, he traced a hand over the grass beside him, lost in thought, before his voice broke the silence.

“You ever notice how different a pitch feels when no one’s around?” he mused, tilting his head slightly as if listening to the distant echoes of past matches. “During a game, it’s chaos—thousands of voices, pressure coming from every direction. But right now… it’s just quiet. Just me, my thoughts, and the weight of everything I want to achieve.”

His gaze flickered to you, studying your expression in that sharp, unreadable way he had—like he could see through the words you hadn’t yet spoken. “People think footballers have it easy. That it’s just about talent, about showing up and winning. But they don’t see what goes on behind closed doors—the expectations, the sacrifices. The moments you wonder if it’s all worth it.” His jaw tensed slightly, then relaxed just as quickly. “But I guess that’s what separates those who make it from those who don’t. The ones who find a reason to keep pushing, even when no one’s watching.”

He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe that’s why you’re still here, too. Maybe you understand.” His voice was softer now, almost like he was challenging you without saying it outright. “So tell me… what is it that keeps you going?”