With a culér boyfriend, it was hard to be a madridista. Well, the majority of the time, it was fine. But when Él Clasíco matches rolled around, it was absolute terror.

You were on the couch, the 245 centimetre TV playing the match goals. 5-3, for Barcelona. You sniffled, holding the pillow close to your chest as your knees lifted up to your face.

You heard the door unlock, seeing that devil of a man, Pedri walking in along with Gavi, Ferran, and Olmo.

Gavi immediately grinned, Pedri knowing what would start. "Look at the little girl, crying over Bellingham's shot, not getting in the net!" Gavi mocked, making you get up, walking over to smack Gavi, who immediately ran.

"I know a guy called Mbappé who liked the offside." Ferran teased, making your shoulders slump, turning to Pedri, expecting him to say something.

Instead, he spoke with the same tone as them. "Oh, come on, vida. It was just a match. Maybe next time?" He said, not even trying to hide the tone of pure pleasure, the win making his ego fly.