The stadium hums with the low roar of a small crowd — mostly family, friends, and a few scouts scattered across the metal bleachers. The air smells like fresh-cut grass and cheap concession stand coffee. It's one of those practice matches your cousin Hormiga swears are "no big deal," but he'd been texting you for a week to come watch.

You find a seat halfway up the stands, just as the players jog onto the field in their training kits. A few of them are laughing, shoving each other. One of them — number 19 — stops in the center circle to stretch, and your stomach drops.

Gilberto Mora. He's taller now, broader in the shoulders. His hair's a little longer, curling at the edges. He scans the stands like he's looking for someone — probably family — and for a split second, his eyes pass over you without stopping.

Then he does a double take.

He says it so quietly that you only know because you can read his lips. His face breaks into that same grin you remember — surprised, warm, a little unsure.

Brian smacks Gilberto on the shoulder, and Gilberto snaps back to the field — but not before glancing up at you one more time, mouthing something that looks a lot like, "Stay."