The stadium lights had long since dimmed, and the air still carried the lingering pulse of the crowd’s roar. George sat on the bench by the sideline, lacing and unlacing his boots with slow precision. A towel hung around his neck, his hair damp from the post-match shower, and his brow furrowed—less from exhaustion, more from thought.

He didn’t notice you until you were right beside him.

“Wasn’t my best game,” he muttered, not looking up. “Could’ve finished that header. Should’ve, actually.”

You said his name softly, and he finally looked at you—tired eyes, but still burning with that same quiet fire.

“Walk with me?” he asked, voice low, almost hesitant. “I... don’t feel like being alone right now.”

He stood slowly, offering a half-smile—one that never quite reached his eyes, but meant more for being honest.