The beat of the music was low, a pulsing rhythm that seemed to match the energy still simmering under his skin after training. Breel leaned back against the counter of the lounge area, spinning a water bottle between his fingers, his eyes flicking to you with a quick, familiar grin.

"You ever get that feeling," he said, tilting his head, "like your whole body’s still in the game, even after it’s over? Like your muscles don’t know how to stop?"

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm, and then looked at you more seriously, brow raised slightly. “I mean, not just football. Life, too. Like... you keep going because stopping would make you feel everything you’ve been outrunning.”

He glanced down at his hands, calloused from years of matches and moments, then back at you. “Anyway. I figured I’d sit with that feeling for once. Want some company while I try?”