The sun was low, dipping behind the hills like it was clocking out for the day. Most of the squad had already hit the showers, the training ground slowly emptying. Cleats stomped through puddles, laughter bounced off the tunnel walls, and still—I stayed.
The pitch was quiet now. Just me, the ball, and the weight of something I couldn't name.
I sprinted drills across the length of the field. Turn. Dribble. Shoot. Turn. Dribble. Miss. Turn. Dribble. Fire again. Sweat stung my eyes, but I kept going. My shirt clung to my chest like a second skin, soaked through. My legs screamed, but they didn't win.
I wasn't chasing a goal.
I was chasing feeling again.
Every strike, every short burst of sprint, every cutback—this was about proving I still had control over something. Because outside this rectangle of grass, everything felt like it was slipping through my fingers.
Elise.The past.The version of me I used to respect.
I ran the same move over and over—a sharp drag to the left, quick feint, spin, then a curling shot with my weak foot. It barely worked once. And I kept going.
A whistle finally echoed from the edge of the pitch.
Coach Ramos stood there, arms folded, face unreadable.
"You're going to tear your groin if you keep kicking like that."
I looked over, breathing hard, trying to find something to say.
But he wasn't finished.
"Training ended 45 minutes ago. Everyone's gone."
"Good," I said, wiping sweat from my brow.
He walked closer. His boots crunched over the gravel at the edge of the turf. "You're not being punished, Müller. You're here because we believe in what you can still be."
I didn't answer.
He waited, then added quietly:"You've improved. A lot. You're starting to move like yourself again. Not the kid with pressure—the striker with purpose."
I finally met his gaze. And I wanted to believe it.God, I needed to. [Later That Evening – Newcastle Players' Parking Lot]
The stadium was mostly dark now. A few utility lights flickered on around the player's parking garage, humming faintly in the silence.
I slung my duffel bag over one shoulder, my body aching from overtraining. My thoughts weren't far behind, dragging like weights tied to my ankles. As I neared the exit gate, I spotted a sleek black coupe parked sideways across two spaces.
Figures leaned against it—one of them unmistakable.
Rúben Dias.
Impeccable posture. White hoodie draped clean over his shoulders. His arm was around a woman with sharp cheekbones and quiet grace—someone who didn't belong to the chaos of football. The kind of person who could exist in Milan or Paris without blinking.
I nodded as I passed.
"Rúben."
His eyes flicked toward me. Calm. Neutral.
"Lukas."
I paused. For a second, I thought he might just turn back to his girlfriend. But instead, he straightened, stepping forward a bit.
"You stayed late," he said flatly.
"Wanted the reps," I replied, meeting his gaze. "Felt like I needed it."
A beat.
"No one feels like they need it when they're doing their job right."
The words weren't cruel. Not quite. Just… sharp. Like glass set carefully on the edge of a table.
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Maybe."
His girlfriend glanced between us, sensing something in the air but saying nothing.
"Do you believe you still belong at this level?" he asked suddenly.
I stared at him. The question hung like frost between us.
"Yes," I said, more certain than I expected. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be here."
He gave a small nod—more a calculation than agreement.
Then he turned back toward the car, brushing the woman's hand as he moved past me.
No goodbye. Just distance.
I kept walking, not looking back.
[A Moment Later – Inside the Car]
She slid into the passenger seat, quiet for a moment. Then:
"That was… tense."
Rúben started the engine, lights glowing blue inside the dashboard. His jaw clenched as he checked the mirrors.
"He's a striker," he said, voice like stone. "Strikers are supposed to be killers."
She frowned. "And?"
"I don't respect failures," he said simply.
Then the car pulled away, tires whispering against the wet pavement.