The office smelled faintly of turf and old leather, the air heavy with the weight of a thousand post-practice conversations. Marco eased into the chair opposite Coach Antonio’s desk, his body still thrumming from the drills, his mind still somewhere else entirely.
Antonio didn’t look up right away. He scribbled something on a clipboard, the sound of pen scratching paper loud in the silence. Finally, he set it aside and leaned back, his dark eyes steady, cutting.
“You’re off,” he said plainly. No preamble. No softness. "This morning, yesterday, even last week, I could tell from the way you moved you weren't the Rossi I've had on this pitch all season. You’re sharper than this. So tell me—what’s going on?”
Marco’s jaw tightened. He stared at the grain of the desk, willing himself into sti
