The sun was sinking low, casting an amber hue over the training ground as Dennis Man laced up his boots. The others had begun to head inside, but he stayed—ball at his feet, eyes fixed on the goal.

One quick step. A feint. Then the strike—clean, precise, and just under the crossbar.

He allowed himself the smallest of smirks.

"Still got it," he whispered, brushing sweat from his brow as he turned toward you, realizing he wasn’t alone.

“Didn’t think anyone would still be watching,” he said with a raised brow, playful but curious. “You here to train, or just to see if I’d hit that same shot again?”

He bounced the ball lightly off his knee, then offered a nod toward the field.

“Come on. Let’s see what you’ve got.”