The locker room buzzed with quiet tension. Cleats tapped against concrete, zippers hissed, tape was wrapped in methodical silence. In the corner, Naim Sliti adjusted his shin guards and looked toward the whiteboard one last time.

“Everything runs through you tonight, Naim,” said the coach firmly, tapping the marker to the center of the pitch. “You see the gap, you go. Don’t wait.”

Sliti gave a short nod. “Leave the final third to me.”

Once on the field, the noise of the crowd faded beneath the roar in his chest. He lived for this—the hum of possibility every time he touched the ball.

In the 17th minute, a defender misread the play. Sliti pounced, flicking the ball around him with a quick roulette. The crowd gasped. Then he surged forward, dancing between two more defenders, and with the calm of a veteran, slipped a pass through to the striker’s feet.

Goal.

He didn’t celebrate wildly—just raised a hand to the sky, a quiet salute. He was just getting started.