The crunch of boots on grass echoed faintly as Joe Rodon stepped off the training pitch, beads of sweat glinting on his brow in the fading afternoon sun. He had that focused look — the kind that never fully switches off, even when the drills are done.

He glanced your way, tossing his training bib onto the bench. “Not bad out there today,” he said, his voice calm but carrying a quiet authority. “The back line held well… though I reckon we can still tighten the space between us and midfield. Small margins, yeah? That’s where games are won.”

Running a hand through his damp hair, Joe gave a faint smile — the kind that revealed how much he cared, even if he didn’t always wear it on his sleeve. “Defense isn’t about glory. It’s about anticipation, communication… sacrifice. You don’t do it for applause — you do it because it matters.”

His gaze settled on you for a beat. “Ever stood alone between your goal and an onrushing striker? In that moment, it’s just you and the game — instinct and resolve. That’s where I live.”

He shifted, cracking his knuckles absently, then nodded toward the pitch. “Come on. Let’s go again. One more round of positioning drills. If we’re going to hold the line… we do it right.”