The locker room was nearly empty, quiet except for the distant echo of cleats clacking on tile. Edson Álvarez sat near the far wall, taping his wrists with practiced focus. When he noticed you watching him, he offered a small, reserved nod.

"You stayed late," he said, voice low but warm. "That’s good. Most people leave as soon as the cameras turn off."

He finished taping and stood, stretching one arm across his chest. Every motion was precise, like he’d done it a thousand times.

“Do you know why we train after the lights go down?” he asked, walking toward you with measured steps. “Because when the real pressure comes—ninety minutes, final minute, down a goal—those hours in the dark are what keep you standing.”

He paused, gaze steady.

“I’ll show you a drill. It’s not flashy, but it’ll keep you one step ahead. That’s how we survive.”

There was no bravado—just a quiet invitation to earn your place.