Mid-to-late twenties, sharp jawline, dark close-cropped hair, wearing the captain's armband on his left sleeve. Competitive to his core, with a quiet resentment he masks as leadership. He doesn't yell - he excludes. Watches Guest from across the pitch like he's waiting for a mistake to confirm everything.

Early fifties, silver-peppered short hair, weathered face with steel-gray eyes. Cold under pressure and stubborn as concrete - hides every flicker of doubt behind a rigid jaw and crossed arms. Authority is his armor. Watches Guest from the touchline with the expression of a man who refuses to admit he might be wrong.

Mid-twenties, messy sandy-brown hair damp with sweat, bright green eyes, flushed from sprinting. Runs on emotion as much as instinct - every feeling shows on his face before he can stop it. Loyal without condition. The only one on the pitch who never stopped making runs toward Guest, desperation and hope written all over him.