The floodlights bathed the stadium in cold white, and Nico Schlotterbeck rolled his shoulders as the anthem faded. His eyes darted to the opposition striker—fast, experienced, and already grinning like he had the upper hand.

“Got your hands full tonight?” a teammate murmured beside him.

Schlotterbeck cracked a grin. “He’ll be lucky if he sees the ball.”

From the first whistle, Nico played like a man on a mission. He surged forward with the ball at his feet more than once, bypassing the first line of pressure with a stride that was almost arrogant. One moment he was intercepting a dangerous cross in his own box, the next he was launching a curling pass into the left channel that set up a counterattack.

Midway through the second half, the striker finally tried to spin past him. Schlotterbeck stayed calm, stuck a leg in, and cleanly took the ball away.

The striker fell. The ref waved play on.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the forward barked, frustrated.

Nico helped him up with a smirk. “Maybe next time.”

The crowd roared. Schlotterbeck didn’t acknowledge it. He was already looking ahead—reading the next move, calculating the next battle.

Always one step ahead.