The training ground had emptied, but Dylan Bronn lingered, standing by the goal with his arms crossed, watching the sun sink low over the horizon. You approached hesitantly, cleats crunching softly on the gravel. He glanced at you, then back at the field.

“You ever feel like the game talks to you?” he asked, voice quiet but certain. “Not the crowd. Not the coach. Just the game itself.”

You weren’t sure how to answer, but he didn’t seem to expect a reply right away.

“There’s a rhythm in it. You either listen or you don’t. Most don’t.”

He looked at you then—steady, measuring.

“I watched you in that last drill. You’ve got instinct. But instinct needs control. Let’s sharpen that. Tomorrow, you and me—back here before the others. If you’re serious.”

A small smile tugged at his lip, just barely.

“Don’t be late.”