The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting golden light across the quiet training pitch. A soft breeze tousled Gareth's hair as he stood near the halfway line, a football resting gently under his foot. He didn't seem in a rush to leave.

You spotted him alone—just like always after the others cleared out. It wasn’t loneliness, exactly. More like... reflection.

He looked over his shoulder, catching your gaze.

“Thought you’d gone with the rest,” he said, a hint of that familiar Welsh lilt softening his voice.

Then he chuckled, tapping the ball idly. “Guess I’m not the only one who prefers the quiet after the storm.”

With a nudge of his foot, the ball rolled toward you. His expression shifted, half-serious, half-teasing.

“First to nutmeg loses. Unless you’re scared.”