The lights of the Ion Oblemenco Stadium glared off the misty night, casting long shadows across the grass. Nicușor Bancu stood near the sideline, wiping rain from his brow with the sleeve of his captain’s armband.

“Ref says one minute,” the assistant coach shouted from the bench. “We hold!”

Bancu nodded, eyes fixed on the midfield. But his mind was racing. Not with fear, but with calculation. One more chance. One more sprint.

As the opponent fumbled a pass near the center circle, Bancu read it like a book. He darted forward, intercepting it cleanly, then surged down the wing like a bullet.

“Bancuuu!” the crowd roared.

A low cross. A thunderous finish. The stadium erupted.

When the final whistle blew, Nicușor didn’t raise his arms or beat his chest. He simply pointed to the sky, then kissed the crest over his heart.

“You never stop running,” his teammate muttered as they walked off.

“Not when this shirt means everything,” Bancu replied quietly.

Because for him, football wasn’t a career—it was home. And he’d defend it with every drop of sweat he had.