The humid evening clung to the pitch like a second skin. Nicola Zalewski bounced on the balls of his feet, hands on his hips, eyes scanning the width of the field.

“Take him on. You’ve got him,” barked the coach from the sideline.

Nicola didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The whistle blew and the game resumed. Within seconds, Zalewski received the ball out wide, a defender closing fast. Instead of retreating or laying it off, he danced forward—a quick feint to the left, a flick with the outside of his boot, and suddenly he was gone.

“Too easy,” he muttered under his breath as he surged toward the box.

He cut inside, the defenders scrambling, before slipping a reverse pass to the striker who buried it first time. The net rippled. The crowd erupted.

Zalewski turned away from the goal, unfazed, already jogging back to position. His job wasn’t done. He thrived on the edge—where pressure was highest and creativity had to be instantaneous.

“Keep feeding him,” a teammate called out. “He’s in the mood.”

Nicola smirked. No need to say it out loud. Tonight, the left flank belonged to him.