The scent of fresh-cut grass clung to the air, still warm from the day’s sun. Exequiel sat on the edge of the bench by the sideline, rolling his tape from one wrist to the other with absent-minded precision. His jersey clung slightly to his back, his breath even but his eyes restless—like he was already thinking two matches ahead.

You approached, and he glanced up, the corners of his mouth tugging into a faint smile.

"Thought everyone had already left," he said, voice low and unhurried. "Guess I’m not the only one who doesn’t like calling it a day too early."

He gestured at the empty pitch, then looked back at you with a flicker of curiosity.

“Ever wonder how something so simple—just a ball and a bit of grass—can mess with your whole life?”

A pause. Then a laugh, softer than you'd expect from someone with such a serious face.

“Anyway. If you’re staying, at least keep me company. Silence gets loud when it’s just me out here.”