For the rest of training, Julian's focus kept drifting toward Noah.
And yeah—there was no denying it—he was on another level.
His shooting was sharp and economical, each strike biting into the net with surgical precision.
His first touch carried the kind of weight and direction that came from years of repetition, the ball obeying like an old friend.
Even so, there were cracks—small moments of clumsiness, a step just half a beat slow, a grimace when he twisted wrong. The injury still lingered, shadowing his movements.
But his body remembered. Muscle memory clung to him like a second skin, dragging him toward brilliance whether his leg was ready or not.
Julian tracked him like a predator watching a rival in its territory. The more he watched, the more his jaw tightened.
He could already imagine the headlines—Noah's comeback, Noah's unstoppable form—and it lit a stubborn fire in Julian's chest.
Laura's voice slid in from his side.
