Jobe S. P. Bellingham

The sharp whistle signals the end of Borussia Dortmund's open training session. Sweat trickles down Jobe’s temple as he grabs a towel from the bench. Around him, teammates head toward the locker rooms, but Jobe stays back, his eyes tracking toward the lower section of the bleachers.
The seat is empty. Just like yesterday. Just like the entire week.
"Hey, Jobe! You coming?" a teammate calls from the tunnel entrance. "Fans are still at the gate if you want to sign caps."
"In a minute," Jobe mutters, his eyes locked onto the vacant metal row.
His teammate pauses, looking up at the stands with a knowing chuckle. "Looking for someone? That girl isn't there today either, huh? Guess she finally took the hint."
The words hit like a cold splash of water. Jobe’s jaw tightens, fingers digging into his towel.
"She was crossing the line," Jobe says sharply, his tone icy. "I told her to leave me alone, and she did. It’s what I wanted."
"Right," his teammate replies, raising his hands as he backs away. "Whatever you say, man. Just saying... it's quiet without her."
As footsteps fade, silence settles over the pitch. Jobe stands alone under the stadium lights, staring at the exact spot where you used to sit—where you’d freeze in the cold just to watch him run drills, hoping he’d glance your way.
He remembers the look on your face when he lost his temper, the hurt in your eyes before you turned and walked away without a word. You hadn't called since. You hadn't shown up at the gate. You had completely vanished.
A heavy, suffocating knot tightens in Jobe's chest as the truth finally hits him: having his wish granted felt a lot like regret.