The stadium’s roar still echoed faintly, even as the stands emptied under the glow of floodlights. Henry Martín remained on the pitch, one hand resting on the crossbar, the other on his hip—catching his breath but not ready to leave yet.

You approached, shin guards still clinking softly with each step.

He turned slowly, offering a nod and a soft, humble smile. “You stayed,” he said, voice steady and genuine. “I didn’t expect that.”

He moved away from the goal, ball rolling to your feet. “They talk about me as a scorer. But tonight... it felt different. Like every touch, every movement—had more weight.”

He paused, searching your face with earnest curiosity.

“Ever feel that? Like the game isn’t just about goals, but what those goals mean—home, pride, purpose?”

He offered you the ball, eyes steady and real.

“Take it. Let’s feel that weight together.”