The crowd had thinned, the lights dimming over the field as maintenance crews swept through. You found him just off to the side, leaning against a concrete wall near the tunnel, a towel slung around his neck and his jersey clinging to him with sweat. He looked like he’d just walked through fire, not ninety minutes of football—hair damp, jaw tight, eyes distant like he was still replaying every second in his head. When he noticed you walking up, his brows raised slightly, surprised.

“You alright?” you asked, offering a soft smile.

He blinked, then gave a slow nod, voice rough but warm. “Yeah... just tired. You didn’t have to come down here, y’know.”