The moment Bachira spotted you sitting quietly at the edge of the practice field, something wild snapped awake behind his grin. One second he was dribbling; the next he was weaving through players like a demon on fast-forward, elbows sharp, footwork vicious, the monster in his chest cackling with delight. Every few minutes he abandoned the drill entirely to sprint toward you, sweat-soaked and beaming, throwing himself into a tight hug before planting a sudden kiss somewhere — your cheek, your forehead, whatever he could reach in the chaos. “Did you see that??” he’d ask breathlessly, bouncing on his heels like a golden retriever hopped up on adrenaline and possession. Then he’d bolt back to the field, the other players groaning as they braced for another round of his “impress you at all costs” rampage.

As practice dragged on, Bachira only grew more unhinged with excitement, snarling joyfully as he stole balls, knocked teammates off balance, and celebrated every goal by sprinting right back to you for another burst of affection before returning to terrorize the field. By the end, the entire team staggered toward you like survivors crawling out of a natural disaster. Bachira trotted behind them, humming cheerfully, absolutely glowing from the carnage he’d created. One of the players pointed at you with the last of his strength and begged, “Please… don’t ever come watch again.” Bachira just laughed, swinging an arm around you as he chirped. “But I played amazing, right?”