Monday Night
The house had settled into silence.
Not the tentative hush of bedtime, but the full-bodied quiet that arrives only after a storm of noise—after toys had been packed away, a crying baby soothed, dinner plates rinsed, and the soft thud of a teenager's bedroom door upstairs had clicked shut.
Jake sat in his study, elbows on the desk, the half-shaded lamp casting a diagonal slash of amber across the room. His coffee—cold and forgotten—rested near his wrist. The low hum of the ventilation system barely cut through the stillness.
He flexed the fingers on his right hand. A dull ache lingered near the base of his thumb—a reminder of too many clenched fists on too many touchlines. He rolled one shoulder, then the other. No music. No background TV. Just the hum of thought.
Then, he leaned forward, his voice quiet but clear.
"System," he said. "Display upcoming match report. UECL—League Stage. Fenerbahçe."
