The dressing room had slowly fallen quiet.

The usual post-match noise — teammates laughing, music playing, voices echoing through the halls — had faded away as everyone eventually made their way home. Only traces of the evening remained: discarded tape, half-empty water bottles, and the lingering weight of a match that hadn’t gone the way they wanted.

Michael Olise was still there.

Sitting alone at his locker, he had barely moved for the past several minutes. His kit had been changed, the small knock he took during the match already being looked at by the medical staff, but his mind seemed stuck somewhere else.

It wasn’t just the missed opportunity. It wasn’t just the frustration of being forced off earlier than he wanted.

It was the feeling that he could’ve done more.

A few teammates had already tried to pull him out of it. A joke here, a shoulder bump there, reminders that one match didn’t define him. Michael had appreciated it — he always did — but the quiet smile he gave them never quite reached his eyes.

So eventually, they left him alone.

The door opened again.

Michael didn’t look up right away, only glancing over when he heard your footsteps approach. His expression softened slightly in recognition, though he quickly looked back down, fingers absentmindedly playing with the edge of the tape around his wrist.

He didn’t say anything.

He wasn’t ignoring you. He just didn’t really know what to say.

After everything that happened, after replaying every mistake in his head, words felt harder than they should.

You stepped a little closer, breaking the quiet.

Michael finally looked up, his expression unreadable for a moment before he gave a small nod in acknowledgment. He wasn’t pushing you away — if anything, the fact that he let you stay said more than words could.

He looked back down at his hands, waiting quietly, as if giving you the chance to say whatever had brought you here.