It hurts when you're always doing your best for your club, and

Host: The stadium lights burned like suns against the midnight sky, casting their glow on an empty pitch still glistening from the night’s rain. The roar of the crowd was gone now — only the echo of chants, the ghost of glory, and the smell of wet grass remained. In the stands, rows of plastic seats stared silently at the field that had held thousands of hearts just hours earlier.

Jack sat on the bench at the sideline, a football resting under his boot, his hands clasped as if in prayer or exhaustion. His jersey clung damply to his frame, still streaked with mud. Across from him, Jeeny stood at the edge of the field, her hands in her coat pockets, her breath visible in the cool night air.

Jeeny: “Angel Di Maria once said, ‘It hurts when you’re always doing your best for your club, and then you hear that you might be going to Tottenham.’”

Jack gave a dry laugh, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, Di Maria — master of the accidental insult.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly. The wind swept through the stadium, rustling the discarded banners in the stands.

Jeeny: “He didn’t mean it as an insult, Jack. He meant it as heartbreak. Loyalty misunderstood. You give everything for a crest — and suddenly, you’re a transaction.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, football’s never been about loyalty. Not really. It’s about contracts, performance, value. You stop performing, you stop existing.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound mechanical.”

Jack: “It is mechanical. You think those agents care how many times you bled for the badge? You think the boardroom remembers the goals, the sweat, the roar? No — they remember the zeros on your valuation. The rest is just sentiment.”

Host: The rain began again, light but persistent. It slid down the goalposts, the droplets catching the light like small shards of glass.

Jeeny: “And yet you stay. You still play. Why?”

Jack: “Because when the whistle blows, everything else disappears. For ninety minutes, I forget the contracts, the rumors, the betrayals. It’s just me, the ball, and the noise. That’s pure.”

Jeeny: “So, love.”

Jack: “Love? Love’s the problem. Love makes you naive. Love makes you think the club loves you back.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it does — just not the way you want it to.”

Host: Jack rubbed his hands together, trying to warm the chill out of his bones. His eyes wandered to the center circle, that small patch of grass where everything begins and ends.

Jack: “You know what hurts most about that quote? It’s not Tottenham. It’s the idea that your loyalty is negotiable. That someone somewhere thinks they can measure it in pounds and minutes.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what every relationship becomes when it stops feeling mutual? You give everything, and then one day, you hear — you’re replaceable.”

Jack: “Yeah. And they call it business.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But Di Maria wasn’t talking about money. He was talking about dignity. About hearing that everything you gave might not be enough.”

Host: The floodlights flickered once, then dimmed to half their strength — a signal from the groundskeeper that it was time to go. Neither of them moved.

Jack: “Funny thing, loyalty. The fans still chant your name, but the suits upstairs are already printing the new guy’s shirt. You don’t even get to mourn the betrayal — you’re too busy pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Jeeny: “It’s the same everywhere, Jack. Whether it’s football or love — we live in a world that trades loyalty for performance. The minute you stumble, someone else takes your place.”

Jack: “So, what do you do?”

Jeeny: “You keep playing. But not for them — for the game. For the part of yourself that can’t stop caring.”

Host: A gust of wind swept across the pitch, bending the corner flag like a bow. Jack’s gaze followed it, his face caught between bitterness and memory.

Jack: “You ever notice how the pitch looks different after everyone leaves? It’s quiet, but it still holds the energy. Every tackle, every cheer, every mistake. Like it remembers more than people do.”

Jeeny: “Because the field’s honest. It doesn’t care who’s traded, who’s benched, who’s trending. It just waits. It forgives.”

Jack: “You talk like the grass has a soul.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it does. Everything that’s been loved that hard usually does.”

Host: Silence settled again. The sound of the rain deepened. Somewhere in the distance, a lone maintenance worker whistled as he rolled equipment back into the tunnel.

Jack: “You know, when I started, I thought being sold or traded meant failure. Like it erased everything you’d done.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it just means the story moves. But you never really leave the places you’ve given yourself to.”

Jeeny: “That’s the real loyalty — not to the club, but to the moments that made you who you are.”

Jack: “Still hurts, though.”

Jeeny: “Of course it does. Love always hurts when it outgrows its home.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, his expression a mix of sadness and pride.

Jack: “You think Di Maria regretted saying that?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he said what every player, every worker, every human’s wanted to scream at least once — ‘I gave you everything. Don’t make me feel replaceable.’”

Host: The last of the lights went out, leaving only the glow from the nearby streetlamps spilling across the field in long, soft streaks. Jack picked up the ball and tucked it under his arm.

Jack: “You know, maybe he was right to be hurt. Loyalty deserves a place in the modern world — even if it’s out of fashion.”

Jeeny: “Loyalty isn’t out of fashion, Jack. It’s just underpaid.”

Host: They walked toward the tunnel, their footsteps echoing on the wet concrete. The rain blurred everything — the field, the seats, the memory of glory. But in the distance, faint and eternal, you could almost hear it — the ghost of a crowd chanting the names of those who gave everything, even when it wasn’t enough.

And as they disappeared into the dim light of the corridor, Angel Di Maria’s words lingered like a bruise wrapped in truth:

“It hurts when you give your best to something, and it forgets to love you back.”

Because whether in sport, art, or life — loyalty is the quiet tragedy of those who care too much in a world that measures everything in numbers.