The final drill wrapped with a sharp whistle, and the group dispersed.
Most of the lads were already peeling off GPS vests and tossing bibs into the bag by the halfway line.
Leo was sweating, breath heavy, but not gasping.
Since Fletcher had stepped into the middle of the rondo, Leo hadn't lost the ball once.
The passes came clean — sharp one-twos, disguised layoffs, a little shoulder drop to create space when he needed it.
As the group started walking back toward the building, Fletcher matched his stride with Leo's.
"You've got a good eye," the striker said, dragging his bib off with one hand.
"Quick feet, too, but you don't panic. You see the picture."
Leo stayed quiet, not sure if it was a compliment or a setup.
Fletcher added, "If I'm on the pitch and you come on, just feed me. That's your job. I'll do the rest."
Leo nodded, still catching his breath. "Got it."
"Don't overthink it," Fletcher said.
"Just be reliable. That's how you stay with us."
