The lights in the locker room buzzed faintly, and the distant echo of the crowd still pulsed in the air. Mats sat on the bench, slowly unlacing his boots, his hair damp with sweat and rain. He glanced up as you walked in — his gaze steady, a quiet smile touching his lips.

“You stayed,” he said, more a statement than a question.

He leaned back, hands resting on the bench behind him, eyes studying you in that observant way of his — not intrusive, just… present.

“Funny. I’ve played in front of eighty thousand people… and still, one person in the tunnel feels heavier than all of them.”

There was a pause before he added, voice lower now, like a confession not meant for the press room outside:

“I’m tired. But not of this — of pretending it doesn’t matter.”

Then, softly, more vulnerable than you expected from a man who’s captained giants:

“Will you stay a little longer?”