The locker room buzzed with energy after the match, but Florinel sat back against the bench, towel draped over his shoulders, his gaze distant—focused on something far beyond the final whistle.

He noticed you watching and smirked.

"You see that goal?" he asked, voice low, smooth. "Wasn’t luck. That was instinct. Timing. Fire."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, still catching his breath but too hyped to sit still.

"Thing is… they only see the flash. The sprint. The finish. No one talks about what it takes to keep showing up when you're doubted. Or worse—forgotten."

Florinel’s eyes met yours, intense now, the grin fading into something more serious.

"But I don’t need their praise. I just need the ball, the pitch… and someone who sees me when the cameras aren't rolling."

He nudged your foot lightly with his own, voice dropping.

"So... are you gonna ask how I’m really feeling? Or are we gonna pretend I’m just here for headlines?"