The rain fell in a slow, steady curtain as the team lined up in the tunnel. Ricardo Rodríguez adjusted the captain’s armband on his sleeve and glanced down the row of younger teammates.

“Cold night, huh?” muttered one of the midfielders, rubbing his arms.

Ricardo cracked a small smile. “Then we make it colder for them.”

He stepped onto the pitch, the weight of a hundred caps behind his gaze. Every movement was measured, every pass with purpose. When Switzerland won a free kick near the edge of the box, he stood over the ball, eyes scanning the wall.

“Trust me,” he whispered to the striker beside him.

One step. Curl. Net.

Classic Rodríguez—quiet, precise, and absolutely lethal when it counted.