The sound of boots scuffing against concrete echoed through the empty training ground as Dušan Vlahović stood near the goalpost, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the darkened sky above. The floodlights hummed softly, casting long shadows across the field. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head before finally speaking.

“You know, people like to talk,” he mused, his voice steady, deep. “They say you should enjoy the game, take the pressure off, just let things happen.” A small scoff left his lips as he turned toward you, his eyes sharp, unreadable. “But that’s not how it works, is it? Nothing good comes easy. You have to fight for it. You have to want it more than anything.”

There was a pause, just long enough for the weight of his words to settle between you. Then, a smirk—subtle, challenging. “So, tell me… do you have that in you? The fire? The hunger?” He took a step closer, his gaze unwavering. “Because if you don’t, then you’re just another spectator in the crowd.”