The floodlights buzzed above the empty pitch as Heorhij stood alone at the edge of the penalty area, gaze fixed on the worn spot where goalmouth battles unfold. His blue and yellow kit had lost its shine from hours of training, but his posture remained proud and unwavering.

He slowly spun the ball on his boot, then noticed you walking up the sideline.

“You’re here late,” he said quietly, his accent softening each word.

He paused, shifting the ball to his hands, looking out across the field.

“The best defenders stay after the noise dies,” he continued, voice calm but resolute. “To make sure nothing was missed. No margin for error.”

He stepped close, holding the ball out to you, the gesture deliberate and steady.

“Want to test your shot? Or just talk through the game… and life afterward? I’m listening.”

Heorhij’s gaze met yours—steadfast, genuine, offering that rare feeling of sharing the field when it’s purely yours.