The training ground was already alive with shouts, studs scraping grass, and the steady rhythm of the ball snapping between boots.
The autumn air carried a bite, and the morning mist clung low across the pitch, softening the edges of the world around them.
Leo was on his third full sprint of the session, sweat beading down his neck as he drove the ball past Jack Whatmough, who lunged in but was left spinning on his heel.
Leo feinted once more, his low centre of gravity carrying him away just in time before Whatmough called out breathlessly, "Oi, Calderon, no place for those snake-like moves here!"
Leo laughed faintly but didn't turn around.
He was too focused, too deep in that flow where every touch felt deliberate and alive.
And then out of nowhere, Tilt appeared, running Leo into the ground before claiming the ball.
Leo on the ground raised his hands, seeking a foul, but none came.
Moments later, a new drill began, a small-sided match across half-pitch.
