The whistle cut through the night.
Julian jogged toward the bench, his chest still rising and falling with the rhythm of war. Laura was already there, a towel draped over one arm, a bottle of sports drink in her hand.
"Here," she said, her voice brisk but warm.
Julian wiped the sweat streaking down his face, the towel rough against his skin, then cracked open the bottle. The cool liquid burned down his throat like fire put out with ice.
Coach Owen's voice broke the moment.
"Good first half." His tone carried no celebration—only command. "Keep the fluidity. Keep the rhythm. But listen—never underestimate them. They can still claw their way back."
"Yes, Coach!" the team answered in unison, voices hard, unified.
The bench became a brief sanctuary. Players leaned back, gulping their drinks, air filled with the hiss of bottles and the low thud of cleats shifting on concrete. The faint smell of liniment mixed with sweat.
