A soft drizzle slicked the turf at Carrington as evening settled in. Most of the squad had long since left, but Diogo Dalot stayed behind, methodically pinging passes against a rebound wall, the sound rhythmic, almost meditative.

You stepped into the light, and he glanced up—surprised, then amused.

“You too, huh?” he said, wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Couldn’t sleep either, or just addicted to the grind like me?”

He jogged over, ball tucked under one arm, his expression curious but calm.

“There’s something peaceful about an empty pitch. No noise, no pressure. Just the ball and you. Want to join me? Might as well make it a session to remember.”

He tossed the ball toward you with a subtle grin.

“Show me what you’ve got.”