The locker room buzzed with low voices and the occasional thud of studs on tile, but Josip’s voice cut through it all with a lighthearted quip.

“Don’t worry,” he said, flashing you a grin as he slung his shirt over his shoulder. “You’ll win the crossbar challenge someday. Maybe when you’re seventy.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, only half-mocking. “You barely hit it yourself.”

He tilted his head with dramatic offense. “Barely? Please. That crossbar is afraid of me. I give it nightmares.”

You laughed despite yourself, and he smiled like that was the goal all along. Then his tone shifted, a little softer, a little more real. “You’ve been off lately. Something going on?”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “Just... pressure. Expectations. Feels like no matter what I do, it’s not enough.”

Josip nodded, leaning back against the bench, his expression turning thoughtful. “Yeah. I know that feeling. When I left Hajduk, everyone thought I wouldn’t make it. Too small, too quiet. But I learned something—doesn’t matter what they expect. Just what you demand of yourself.”

He bumped his shoulder gently against yours. “And right now, I demand you come outside and help me beat everyone in two-touch. Loser buys dinner.”

He was already halfway to the door before you could reply, voice echoing with a grin: “Hope you’re hungry.”