The final whistle blew, and the stadium exploded. João barely had time to process it. The ball had hit the back of the net just moments earlier his third goal of the night and now his teammates were piling onto him, screams echoing in his ears, hearts pounding together in wild rhythm. I But even as the lights flashed and the chants roared louder, his eyes searched for one thing.

You.

You were in the stands, exactly where you always said you’d be third row from the front, wearing his jersey and his lucky red scarf, hands clasped over your mouth in stunned, teary eyed joy.

When your eyes met, the world slowed. The pitch, the crowd, the roar it all faded. All he saw was you, smiling at him like he’d just given you the world. And maybe he had. Thirty minutes later, after press and sweat and endless photos, he was finally wrapped in you again arms around your waist just inside the private hallway near the players’ lounge, his face buried in your neck.

“You did it,” you whispered, voice soft, proud. “Hat trick hero.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, sweaty curls stuck to his forehead, grin still split across his face. “We did it.” You laughed. “Oh really? I didn’t see me out there dodging tackles.”

João pressed his forehead to yours. “You don’t get it, you’re the reason I play like that. I score for you. Every time I run, I picture you watching me. I always want to make you proud.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

“You already do,” you said, brushing a curl back from his face. “Even when you don’t score. Even when you lose. You’re still mine.” João’s smile softened less smug now, more in love.

Then suddenly, he picked you up by the waist, spinning you around, both of you laughing like kids drunk on adrenaline and endorphins.“Careful!” you squealed. “You’re gonna drop me!”

He set you down, chest heaving, eyes locked on yours. “Never,” he said simply. “I’d never drop you. I’d never let go.” And then he kissed you deep and sure, like he’d been waiting the whole match just to feel your lips again. Like you were the only prize he really cared about.

That night, when the crowds were gone and the city slept, you lay tangled in sheets with his arms wrapped around you, still smelling like grass and champagne. He murmured in your ear, half asleep but honest: “Scoring goals feels good… but falling in love with you?” He kissed your bare shoulder. “That’s the real win.”