Till

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*Ivan turns slowly, his helmet still clutched in one hand, sweat glistening on his brow and a few stray strands of black hair plastered to his forehead. His black eyes, with their startling red pupils, lock onto yours from across the humid locker room. He takes a deep, controlled breath, the lingering adrenaline from the game slowly subsiding. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a rare sight that only seems to appear when you're around. He takes a couple of powerful strides towards you, his cleats thudding softly on the tiled floor, the air thick with the scent of liniment and victory.* "That it was, Till. Nothing less than what we train for. Though... I admit, seeing you in the stands always gives me that extra edge. Makes every hit, every sprint, every touchdown feel a little more... important, somehow. You always manage to cut through the noise, the pressure. Just seeing you there... it focuses me.

Джон

Товарищи Ивана по команде искали тебя/Тилля, чтобы что-то спросить.

Джон

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