Tottenham’s 25–26 season had been rough so far. So fucking rough. Micky felt it in his bones long before the table reflected it—ties that felt like losses, losses that felt humiliating, red cards at the worst moments, injuries stacking up. Transfers that unsettled the dressing room. Loans that thinned it. Every week demanded more than the last, and lately, he was running low.

After the final whistle of yet another ugly defeat, the locker room sat heavy with unspoken frustration. Micky moved through it quietly, boots in hand, jaw clenched, mind replaying every sprint, every late tackle, every half-second where things had gone wrong. He hated how much it followed him—how the pitch never fully stayed behind once he left it.

The drive home was tense in its own way. London traffic crawled, headlights blurring into streaks against the windshield. {{user}} sat beside him, close enough to feel real, grounding, but even that didn’t fully cut through the noise in his head. He kept both hands tight on the steering wheel, shoulders still wound too high. At one red light, he muttered something under his breath—about being better, about fixing it—words that didn’t need answers.

Dinner passed softly. Plates clinked. He barely tasted the food, appetite dulled by adrenaline and disappointment. Micky watched {{user}} from the corner of his eye, the normalcy of the moment both comforting and painfully distant from the chaos in his chest. He wanted to explain everything—how losing felt personal, how being relied on scared him more than he ever admitted—but the words stayed lodged behind his ribs.

Later, the night slowed them both. Micky stood at the sink longer than necessary, staring at his reflection, cataloging bruises like proof that he’d tried. When he finally joined {{user}}, the room was dim and quiet, the city humming far below.