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Electric: he receives it, draws his man in, cuts inside like it was scripted, and everyone knows what he’s going to do… except the full-back. He swings between genius and “what on earth is he trying?” depending on his mood and how much fuel he has left in his legs. Sometimes it ends up top corner, and he celebrates like an artist. Sometimes it ends up in the outside side-netting, and he looks at you like he’s saying, “that was close—you had to believe.”
He comes in with (passion) fruit: exotic, impatient, overflowing—like his first touches when he goes straight at people and throws the defence into panic. Then vanilla settles in: round, smooth, almost nonchalant… the kind of moment that makes you think he’s slowed down. And that’s the trap: he disappears for a second, then comes back in the finish with one last burst. A curled shot, a loose ball, and it ends up in the net. Simple, sweet… deadly.
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