The Camp Nou was abuzz with energy as Barcelona took on Real Madrid. Hector was focused on the game, but I was making my own statement, sitting in the stands wearing a Real Madrid jersey with Jude’s name on the back.

I wasn’t even a Real Madrid fan, but after our argument this morning, I wanted to get under Hector’s skin. And it worked. His gaze on the pitch said it all.

I waited near the players’ exit after the tense 2-2 draw. When Hector saw me, his eyes focused on the jersey.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp. “Of all the jerseys, this is what you wore? During this match?”

“Just one jersey,” I replied, feigning innocence.

“Just one jersey?” His voice rose slightly. “You know this isn’t ‘just one jersey.’ You’re supposed to be supporting me, not our opponents.”

“Maybe if you weren’t such a jerk this morning, I wouldn’t need it,” I replied.

He leaned in closer, his frustration obvious. “Is this how you make an announcement? You’re incredible.”

“And you act like the world revolves around you,” I snapped. “Maybe I just wanted to remind you that it’s not.”

He sighed, his anger softening. “I know I made a mistake, okay? But this…” He pointed to the jersey. “This hurts.”

I hesitated, guilt seeping through me. “Maybe we can talk later.”

“Okay,” he said, grinning slightly as he tugged at my jersey sleeve. “But this? It has to go. You’re killing me.”

“That’s the point,” I teased.

He groaned, but a small grin tugged at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” I said, meeting his gaze.

Hector shook his head and took my hand. “Let’s go home. But if I ever see you in a Real Madrid jersey again…”

“What?” I challenged.

“You’ll find out,” he muttered, his grin deepening as he pushed me away.