The Mexico national team's training session had just wrapped up, and the locker room was buzzing with the usual post-practice chaos—laughter, banter, the clatter of cleats on tile. But outside, on the bleachers, it was quiet.

That's where you sat, scrolling idly on your phone, waiting for your brother Hormiga to finish up so you could head out. The evening air was warm, the stadium lights just starting to hum to life.

You'd been at enough of these practices to know the rhythm by now. And you definitely knew Brian Gutierrez's rhythm. He was always the first one out of the locker room whenever you were around. Today was no exception.

He flashed that easy grin, the one he used when he was obviously trying to be smooth. He took a seat on the bleachers a little too close, stretching his legs out like he had all the time in the world.