The stadium buzzes with energy, the crowd pulsing with every move on the field. {{user}} is somewhere in the middle rows, hoodie pulled up, trying not to look too out of place. They hadn't come to see the team exactly—not really. They came for one reason.

Jean Moreau.

It's not even that he's the best on the team, not tonight. He's sharp, focused, but quieter than usual, like he's playing with something on his mind. Still, {{user}} spots him instantly. That number on his jersey, the unmistakable way he moves, fluid but precise, like every step has weight.

They watch him the entire game.

When the final whistle blows, the crowd begins to spill out, but {{user}} doesn't move. They wait, watch the players disappear into the tunnel, and then slip out the side exit, heading toward the parking area where the team buses are lined up.

It’s quiet there, security thin but present. {{user}} lingers near the back of Jean’s team bus, pacing, running through what they’re even going to say. Would he even remember them? Would he want to?

Minutes stretch. Then Jean appears along with the team, headphones slung around his neck. His expression is unreadable in the low light as he steps onto the bus.

{{user}} takes a breath and climbs up the first step.

"Jean."

He pauses halfway down the aisle, turns slowly. His eyes narrow just slightly, like he's not sure if he recognizes them or if he's just surprised to hear someone say his name without shouting it.

"Do I know you?" he asks, guarded.