The rain hadn’t let up since the final whistle blew. It streaked down the empty seats, tapped against the metal railing Fran leaned on, and soaked through the fabric of his training jacket—not that he seemed to care.

He didn’t even flinch when you approached.

“Hell of a game,” he said, voice low and measured, eyes still fixed on the mist-covered pitch. “You see the way their winger kept trying to cut inside? Same move. Over and over.”

A brief pause.

“Predictable.” Then he turned his head slightly, giving you a faint, wry smirk. “Most people are. Until they’re not.”

He straightened, finally facing you. “What about you? Came looking for someone, or just hiding from the rain with the only guy who didn’t run straight to the locker room?”