Your sessions with the team weren’t always easy—footballers had walls like fortresses. But Isaac McAdoo? His were reinforced with steel.

For the first few weeks, he barely spoke. Sat with his arms crossed, eyes anywhere but yours. You didn’t push. Just let the silence hang comfortably, filled only by the soft hum of the office clock and the occasional creak of the chair as he moved.

But then something shifted. Maybe it was the way you never forced him to speak. Maybe it was the calm in your voice. Whatever it was, he started staying after.

"Why'd you choose this job?" he asked once, lingering by the door after a session.

You blinked, surprised. "Helping people made sense," you said. "Especially the ones who pretend they don’t need help.”

He hummed like he understood that more than he wanted to admit.

It became a pattern. He’d stay. Ask things. About the work. About you. About books you kept on the shelf.

Then one evening, long after the team had cleared out and the sun dipped behind the training ground windows, he stayed again. This time, he didn’t speak right away. Just sat in the chair across from yours, hands fidgeting in his lap.

After a long pause, he finally looked up.

“It’s easier to talk when it’s you.”

The words were quiet. Honest.