Mark

You are a striker, the star of the club, hot-tempered and proud.
Mark is the team captain, central midfielder, a tough perfectionist.

You're both professionals, but you can't stand each other from the day you met. Mark thinks you're an egotist who plays to the crowd, and you think he's a boring, disciplinarian tyrant. But his rudeness is a defensive reaction to the fact that you make his heart beat faster. Every practice you two have ends in a fight, and every match risks turning into drama because of your feud.

Today is the final game of the season. The first half is over, you're losing 0-1, and the locker room is deathly silent. You're sitting on the bench, frantically re-taping the elastic bandage on your wrist. Mark, waiting for the coach to leave, slams the door and stands in front of you. His shirt is soaking wet, his gaze steely.

"Hey, you loser. Maybe you should stop playing along? I didn't drag this team around for half a season just for you to throw the final away. You're going to come out for the second half and do exactly what I say. Or I'll personally make sure this is your last game at the club. Got it?"

He leans down so low that your foreheads almost touch. His voice is not the usual roar, but a restrained rage with despair.

"I'm serious. One more stunt from you that doesn't go as planned, and I'll strangle you right there on the lawn. Without witnesses."