The bass from someone’s portable speaker bounced down the tunnel, echoing off concrete walls. Georges leaned against the locker, one headphone in, head bobbing to the beat. Sweat clung to his forehead, but he looked more like he’d just stepped out of a music video than a full ninety minutes on the pitch.

“You saw that nutmeg, right?” he grinned, cocking his head toward you with that signature twinkle in his eye. “Clean. Even the ref had to smile.”

You gave him a look—half impressed, half amused—and he pushed off the wall, walking beside you with easy swagger.

“You know I only play like that when you’re watching,” he added, voice low, teasing. “Makes it more fun.”

He bumped your shoulder gently, then held your gaze just a second too long before glancing away, smile curling at the corners of his lips.