Rain misted gently over the stadium lights, giving the pitch a glossy sheen as the players filed out of the tunnel. Leandro Trossard was among the last, pulling his gloves tighter and glancing around the half-filled stands. The hum of anticipation buzzed in the air.

“Cold night, huh?” Ben White called out, jogging alongside him.

Leandro smirked slightly, his breath curling in the chill. “Perfect weather for something unpredictable,” he said in his usual calm tone.

In the dressing room earlier, the manager’s words had echoed in his head: “Leandro, we need you on the front foot. You see things others don’t—use that.”

Now, as he took his position near the touchline, scanning the opposition’s back line, he could feel that subtle crackle in his fingertips—the one that came just before he did something brilliant. Something different.

“Oi, Leo!” shouted a voice behind him—Martin Ødegaard. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Leandro tilted his head, already one step ahead. “Slip it through if I pull the fullback. You’ll know where I’ll be.”

The whistle blew, and everything else fell away. The rhythm of the game began to beat like a second heart in his chest. First touch. Second. A quick turn. A nutmeg. Then space.

He was gone, the ball kissing the turf beneath his boots, the defense scrambling.

Tonight, he wasn’t just part of the match—he was the match.