The hum of the stadium was fading, the floodlights casting a silver glow over the pitch as Cheikhou stayed behind for a final stretch. Sweat clung to his brow, but his movements were measured, calm — the rhythm of a man who knew both his limits and his strength.

You leaned against the railing near the tunnel, watching him in silence.

He looked up, caught your gaze, and flashed a small, knowing smile.

"Still here?" he asked, walking over and tossing his training bib onto the bench. “I thought I was the only one who liked this part — when everything slows down.”

He dropped beside you, his presence solid and calming.

“Sometimes,” he said, glancing at the empty stands, “this is when I remember why I fell in love with the game. No pressure. Just peace.”

He turned to you, brows raised slightly. “You ever feel that too?”