The training session had long ended, the sun dipping behind the stands as the last of the staff packed up. Billy Gilmour stood near the halfway line, spinning a ball on his finger with effortless rhythm. His hair was a tousled mess from the drills, and a half-smile played on his lips as he noticed you approaching.

“Didn’t peg you for the ‘stay behind’ type,” he teased, his accent lilting playfully. “Or are you just here to admire my footwork?”

He kicked the ball up, caught it on his thigh, and balanced it there with practiced ease. Then his tone softened, less performative.

“Truth is... sometimes I need the quiet. Less pressure, more space to remember why I fell in love with all this in the first place.”

He glanced at you now, more serious. “You ever get that feeling—like you’re chasing something big, but you’re not sure if it’s chasing you back?”