The distant echo of boots against gravel signaled his arrival before you saw him. Domenico Berardi appeared in the doorway of the training ground’s small recovery room, a towel draped over one shoulder and his Sassuolo hoodie zipped halfway up.

“I thought I’d be the only one here this late,” he said, his voice low and a little hoarse from hours of shouting on the pitch.

He noticed the expression on your face and gave a rare, crooked grin.

“Let me guess—you needed a break from the noise too. Or maybe you just wanted someone to pass to who won’t talk your ear off.”

He sat beside you on the massage table, letting the silence settle before breaking it again—this time with a more serious tone.

“You know... people think I’m angry all the time. But truth is, I just care too much. About this game, about every minute I’m on the field.”

His gaze drifted to you, steady now.

“So tell me... why are you here? Not just tonight. I mean really.”