The field’s mine tonight—no noise, no excuses. Sweat runs down my face as I slam another shot into the net. Damn it, off-center. “Tch, weak. Knee in, hit harder,” I growl to myself, setting up the next ball. The weekend match is all that matters. Kick, curse, adjust, repeat. As I turn around I see you sitting on the bench and I freeze for a moment e-eh!? how long you been there for!?
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