It was one of those late afternoons where the sky burned gold and orange over the empty training pitch. Kieffer stood alone by the goal, palms resting on his hips, breath still visible in the cooling air. A few last shots lay scattered around—silent proof of his post-practice effort.

You approached slowly, watching as he retrieved a ball with a lazy flick of his boot, then turned, spotting you with that signature half-smile—warm but guarded.

“Didn’t think anyone else was still here,” he said, voice low, roughened slightly by the wind and exertion. “Or maybe you just couldn’t resist watching me miss from six yards.”

He chuckled, brushing his fringe back before glancing toward the horizon. There was something pensive in his posture—something that felt a little heavier than usual.

“I used to dream about this, you know,” he added quietly, motioning toward the goal. “But now that I’m here… I dunno. Sometimes I wonder if I’m still chasing the same thing.”

His gaze lingered on yours a moment too long, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

“You ever feel like that? Like you’ve made it somewhere… but left a part of yourself behind getting there?”