The field was empty now.
The lights hummed overhead, casting pale circles across the grass, leaving the corners of the pitch swallowed by shadow. The air had gone cold enough that it crept in under Joey's jersey, raising goosebumps along his arms.
He stayed where he was.
Flat on his back at the center circle. One forearm draped over his eyes. The other resting uselessly against his chest.
Footsteps approached.
Slow. Careful. Not rushed.
Joey didn't move.
They stopped a few feet away.
For a moment, nothing happened. Just the low buzz of the lights and the faint rustle of wind through the stands.
Then something shifted in his peripheral vision.
A shadow bent closer.
Joey slid his forearm down just enough to see.
Layla stood there, hands in her jacket pockets, looking down at him—not with shock, not with pity. Just… assessing.
"Hey," she said.
That was it.
Joey stared at her for half a second longer, then dragged his arm back over his eyes.
Layla exhaled through her nose.
She glanced around, then hesitated before lowering herself onto the grass beside him. Not lying down—just sitting, legs bent, weight carefully balanced like she didn't quite trust the ground.
She brushed at the grass with her fingers immediately, grimacing. "Ugh. This is why I hate sitting on pitches."
She flicked a blade of grass off her hand, then looked back at him.
"How long are you planning on staying here?" she asked. "It's getting dark. And cold." A pause. "You're not going to sleep here are you?"
Joey stayed quiet.
Layla sighed.
She leaned back on her hands, eyes on the lights above them. "Look," she said, calmer now. "I get it. That sucked."
He shifted slightly, but didn't uncover his face.
"But it happens," she went on. "It wasn't some championship final. It wasn't the end of the season. It was one match." She glanced at him again. "You don't get to spiral forever over one bad moment."
Silence stretched.
Then Joey spoke.
Low. Muffled by his arm.
"It wasn't just a match."
Layla stilled.
He moved his forearm away this time, just enough for his eyes to be visible. They were red—not crying, just raw.
"It was the match."
Layla didn't respond right away.
The lights hummed.
The cold deepened.
"It was the moment," Joey said.
His voice was rough now, like it had been scraped raw by the cold.
"She was there," he went on, staring up at the lights. "In the stands. I saw her before the whistle. She was watching." His jaw tightened. "She was… hoping I'd do something."
He let out a quiet, broken laugh.
"And I didn't."
Layla's fingers curled slightly in the grass.
"All that sweat. All that time. All that effort." He paused, then added, quieter, "And the only thing it turned into was that look on her face."
His chest rose sharply.
Layla's eyes flicked toward him.
He didn't look back.
"Disappointed," he said. "Not angry. Not surprised. Just… disappointed." His fingers curled against his jersey. "Like she finally noticed me—and wished she hadn't."
Silence settled between them.
Joey exhaled slowly.
"Honestly?" he said. "If she'd read the letter… it probably would've been the same."
Layla stiffened.
He kept going.
"She would've had that same look. That polite, uncomfortable one." His lips pressed together. "So maybe it's better she didn't read it. Maybe it's better she never saw any of it."
He turned his head slightly, eyes fixed on the dark edge of the stands.
"At least that way," he murmured, "I could pretend it mattered."
Layla said nothing.
"And now?" Joey continued. "After tonight?" A pause. "I might not even play again this season."
That landed heavier than everything before it.
"I was barely on the bench before," he said. "I messed up the one chance I got."
The lights hummed overhead.
"That's why I don't try," he said at last.
Layla's jaw tightened—but she still didn't interrupt.
"That's why I never should have," Joey went on, voice flattening. "Because every time I do, it just proves the same thing." He swallowed. "Some people aren't meant to be seen. They're just meant to exist quietly and not get in the way."
He shifted slightly, forearm sliding back over his eyes.
"And I knew that," he added. "I knew it before the letter. Before the classes. Before all of this."
A beat.
"So yeah," he said, not looking at her. "You were wrong."
The words weren't sharp. They were tired.
"There was nowhere I could put effort that wouldn't end the same way."
He went quiet after that.
Just lay there, breathing shallowly, the cold seeping in through the grass beneath him.
Layla stayed quiet for a while.
"I never really liked football," Layla said eventually.
Joey's forearm twitched.
She didn't look at him when she spoke. Her eyes were on the pitch, tracing the faint scuff marks where cleats had torn up the grass.
"Anita does," she went on. "Always has." A faint smile touched her mouth, then faded. "She used to try and get me into it. Drag me to games. Explain plays like I was supposed to be impressed."
Joey slowly shifted his arm, just enough to uncover one eye.
"I tried," Layla said. "I really did." She exhaled. "But it always felt… limiting."
He frowned slightly, the movement small but visible.
"Everything in football depends on one thing," she continued. "The ball." She gestured vaguely toward the center of the field. "It decides everything. Who matters. Who doesn't. Who gets remembered."
She rubbed her thumb against her sleeve.
"You can run all game. Mark your man perfectly. Be in the right place over and over." Her voice stayed even. "But if the ball doesn't come to you—if it rolls past, or gets intercepted, or just… never arrives—none of that shows."
Joey's arm lowered a little more.
"It's like you're working toward a single moment," Layla said. "One touch. One cross. One save. One shot. One clean hit into the net." She paused. "And when that moment slips… it feels like everything before it disappears with it."
Her fingers pressed into the grass, then quickly brushed it off, as if she'd touched something she didn't quite like.
She shrugged lightly.
Joey's forearm slid down fully now. He stared at the sky, but his focus wasn't there.
Layla shifted beside him, knees drawn up.
"I think…" she hesitated, then continued, "I pushed you too hard toward that one moment." She swallowed. "Like everything you did only mattered if it ended exactly right."
Her hands clenched briefly in her jacket pockets.
"That wasn't fair," she said. "And it wasn't my place."
Joey's fingers curled once, then relaxed.
"I don't like it when people give up," Layla admitted quietly. "I take it personally. Probably more than I should." A small, humorless breath escaped her. "So I thought… if I just pushed you, you'd see what I saw."
She shook her head.
"But that wasn't about you," she said. "That was me."
The wind moved across the field, cold now.
"I'm sorry," Layla said. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just honest.
She waited a moment. Joey didn't respond—but his breathing had slowed, steadied.
Layla stood, brushing off her pants, careful not to touch the grass again.
"It's getting late," she said. "You shouldn't stay out here too long."
She took a step away, then paused.
"For what it's worth," she added, without turning back, "I think you gave everything you had... and that is something you should be proud of."
Then she left.
Joey stayed where he was.
His gaze drifted—not to the goal, not to the stands—but to the long, empty stretch beyond the pitch. The track lay quiet under the lights, unoccupied, waiting.
He didn't stand.
He didn't smile.
But for the first time that night, he didn't cover his eyes again.