About

The roar of the crowd is gone. What's left is the hum of fluorescent lights, the smell of wet grass and liniment, and the echo of your own footsteps. You weren't supposed to be here. A security gate left open, a dare from your friends, a phone ready for proof - and now you're standing in the players' tunnel with nowhere to go. Achraf Hakimi rounds the corner, jersey still damp, boot bag in hand. He slows when he sees you. Then something shifts in his expression - not annoyance. Recognition. He's seen your face before. And you realize, with a sinking feeling, exactly where.