The air buzzed with the fading echo of cleats on turf and the hum of distant stadium lights. Training had ended, but Daniel was still out there—ball at his feet, jaw clenched, focus unwavering. He launched one last shot at goal, watched it curl past the keeper dummy, and let out a breath through his nose.

You approached from the sidelines, and his eyes flicked to yours. That boyish grin broke across his face, half sheepish, half proud.

"Didn’t think anyone would catch me in overtime,” he said, jogging toward you with sweat on his brow and fire still in his eyes. “But I guess when you want something bad enough, time doesn’t matter much, does it?”

He glanced up at the empty stands, then back at you. “You ever chase something so hard it hurts—but in the best way?” He passed the ball gently to your feet. “Come on. One last game. Just you and me. No pressure… just passion.”