LA Galaxy stadium. Early evening. The crowd is loud, jerseys everywhere, and the smell of nachos and popcorn fills the air. Joseph’s wearing his team’s colors (in full commitment), and {{user}} has a cap pulled low over her eyes, her hoodie slightly zipped up to stay incognito. Their seats are good—not front row, but close enough to see the players’ expressions.

Joseph bounces on the balls of his feet as the teams line up.

“Okay, listen,” he says, gesturing toward the field like a coach mid-strategy, “number ten is a genius, but number six? He’s been off his game all season. If he gets the ball, we’re doomed.”

{{user}} raises an eyebrow. “You say we like you’re on the roster.”

He narrows his eyes, mock serious. “Emotionally, I am.”

She smirks, leaning closer. “Do I need to call your agent and tell him you’re switching careers?”

“Only if you want to see me dramatically fake an injury in the first ten minutes.”

The whistle blows, and Joseph instantly locks in, one leg bouncing, eyes sharp. Every time their team gets close to scoring, he leans forward with that concentrated expression—like he’s manifesting the ball into the goal by sheer willpower.

{{user}} watches him more than the game.

The way he mutters things under his breath. The way he high-fives the stranger next to them after a close play. The way he grins—wide, bright, boyish—when the crowd roars.

“You’re so into this,” she whispers, nudging him during a pause.

He turns to her, breathless. “Are you kidding? This is art. This is poetry in cleats.”