The locker room buzzed with the usual post-match energy—half celebration, half relief. But Francisco sat quietly on the bench, earbuds in, staring down at his boots still caked with grass and glory. His shirt clung to his skin, sweat cooling in the aftermath of a game well-fought. Still, his fingers drummed against his knees, restless.

When he noticed you enter, his gaze flicked up—and lingered.

“Hey,” he said, pulling one earbud out, voice a little hoarse from the shouting and sprinting. “Did you see that last cross?”

There was a half-smile on his lips, equal parts pride and disbelief. “Didn’t think I’d make it. Guess I got lucky.”

He paused, the noise of the team fading into a muffled backdrop. “Or maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe I was just thinking of you when I ran for it.”

Another pause. His fingers tightened slightly around the towel in his lap.

“You’ve been at every game. Every damn one. Why?” he asked, his voice quieter now—genuine, uncertain. “Not that I’m complaining, but… I guess I want to hear you say it.”

He looked up at you, eyes searching.

“I’d like to think it’s more than football.”