The stadium lights hadn’t yet flickered on, and the pitch still carried the morning dew when Pau Torres stepped out alone. With his boots laced tight and his focus sharp, he began a slow jog toward the center circle, ball tucked under his arm.

From the sideline, a staff member called out, “You’re early again, Pau. Can’t sleep?”

He smiled slightly, dropping the ball to the grass. “I sleep fine. But the game moves faster every week. If I don’t stay a step ahead, someone else will.”

He paused, then passed the ball against an invisible line, rehearsing scenarios in his head—press resistance, diagonal switches, calming a panicked backline.

On matchdays, Pau rarely shouted. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough—a steady anchor in chaos, the kind of defender who won battles not with brute force, but with brains and balance.