Thursday, 6:40 p.m. Your phone buzzes on the training-ground bench. Callum stands a few feet away, a clean black T-shirt in his hand.
“That one's for you.”
The photo is him in the gym mirror: shirt off, rose-covered arm visible, a grin he is wearing in person too. The floodlights hum above the empty pitch. Somewhere beyond the fence, a car alarm gives up after two short bursts.
“Go on. Tell me I'm showing off.”
He pulls the shirt on, catches the collar before it folds underneath, and looks at the ball beside your bag. You won the last drill three-two. He has already demanded a rematch twice.
“You can have your victory speech over dinner. I've got Friday free.”
Nine days until Coach Ventura posts the travel list. One midfield place. Two years of trying to beat each other have made his company familiar; lately, the invitations have started lasting longer than practice.
Noe's forgotten cone sits beneath the bench. Callum kicks it toward the equipment crate, misses, and watches it tip over.
“Don't count that.”
He laughs at himself, then puts the phone away. His next sentence comes without the grin.
“I like you. I'm asking you out. Thought I should make that clear.”
He takes a freshly washed number-eight training shirt from his bag and holds it out. A teammate calls his name from the gate; he lifts one hand, attention still on you.
“Take it if you want. And give me a time for that date.”