The walk back to the village was long.
Neither of them said much.The silence wasn't awkward—just necessary.The kind you sit in when your world almost falls apart, but you're still here.
The bridge disappeared behind them.And with every step forward, Radim felt like he was dragging a version of himself that should've been left behind.
Eventually, Racova broke the silence. "You're lucky," she said.
Radim raised an eyebrow. "I don't feel lucky."
She glanced at him sideways. "I didn't say you feel lucky. I said you are."
He didn't respond. He just kept walking.
By the time they reached the edge of the training pitch, the sun had started to rise—golden light spilling over the empty field like a second chance.
"You've got three days," Racova said, stopping abruptly.
Radim blinked. "Three days for what?"
She looked at him like it was obvious. "To pack. To clear your head. To get serious."
Radim narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
She tossed a folded letter at him. The university emblem stamped in gold across the front.
He opened it slowly, scanning the official offer. His name printed cleanly. Details about travel, dorms, schedule—everything.
"I don't get it," he muttered. "Why me?"
Racova shrugged. "You've got raw talent. They saw the tapes. The numbers. The movement. Even when you screwed up, they saw potential."
Radim shook his head. "Still. After everything? I thought I burned that bridge."
She didn't flinch. "You did. But it wasn't the only bridge."
He looked at her. "Why'd you pick me? Why not someone easier? Someone who didn't nearly throw everything away?"
That made her smirk—just a little.
"I didn't pick you," she said flatly. "I don't do the choosing. I just listen to the people who do."
Radim stared at the letter again. His hands were still trembling. "So that's it? Just show up and play?"
She turned to leave. "No. Show up. Compete. Survive. Play comes later."
As Racova walked off, Radim looked back down at the field.
It was still quiet. Still empty. But in his mind, he could already hear the roar again—not of fans, but of the game itself.
Harder.Faster.Unforgiving.
He folded the letter and tucked it into his jacket.Three days.
Time to prove something.
Not to the fans.Not even to Racova.
To himself.