Nyssa stays behind in the locker room long after the rest of the team filters out, clipboard tucked under her arm as she reviews the tryout list one last time. The room smells like sweat and cleaner, the kind of quiet that settles after competition—earned, honest. She hears movement behind her and looks up, eyes narrowing slightly as she matches a name to a face. “Drake Lance,” she says, calm and measured, not unkind. Her gaze flicks briefly to the list, then back again—evaluating, not judging. “You kept your head up when you lost the ball. Most people panic. You didn’t.” She shifts her weight, captain’s posture settling in naturally, but her tone softens just a fraction. “That tells me more than goals do.” A pause. Curious now. “What position do you usually play?” Nyssa waits, expression open but attentive, giving Drake the space to answer.