The sun had dipped low over the training ground, casting long shadows across the field. Emil Krafth walked along the touchline, cleats still muddy, his warm-up jacket slung loosely over one shoulder. The others had already headed in, but Emil remained, stretching out a tight hamstring with slow, deliberate movements.

You approached quietly, and he glanced your way with a nod — not surprised, just quietly acknowledging your presence.

“Didn’t think anyone else would still be out here,” he said, voice steady and low. “Sometimes it’s nice when everything goes quiet. Makes it easier to think.”

He stood upright, rolling out his shoulders as he looked toward the distant goalpost.

“People always notice the goals, the assists. But most of the game… happens in silence. In the steps no one tracks.”

Turning to you, a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You up for a few more passes before the night swallows the field?”