Rain tapped gently against the old training facility windows, and Edinson Cavani sat on a wooden bench near the exit, lacing up his boots in silence. You'd thought everyone had left already, but he looked up when he heard your steps.

“You stayed late,” he said in a low, accented murmur, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’s seen too much to waste words.

He stood, tall and composed, then tossed you a spare water bottle without asking.

“I watch the young ones train sometimes. Not just how they run, but how they react—when they fall, when they miss. You… you get up fast. That matters more than talent, sometimes.”

He gave a slow nod, his dark eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Come. A few more runs. I’ll show you the difference between movement and meaning.”

There was no arrogance in his voice. Just belief—in the game, and maybe in you.