You didn’t want to be noticed.

That wasn’t your plan when you transferred into the FC Barcha media department. You stayed late. You worked quietly. You smiled politely. Focusing on working efficiently to earn hard fulfilling wages.

One night distraction formed within this immersed personal bubble you acquainted yourself within. Your eyes found themselves wavering upwards, as if disinterested from the numerous amounts of paperwork your desk withheld. Instead, they were met with his own.

Across the floodlit training grounds, under the brisk Spanish dusk, Bunny Iglesias stood with a football under one foot, Jersey clinging onto his sweat-slick skin, staring at you like he’d just recognised the missing piece of a puzzle he didn’t know he’d been missing his whole life.

You froze.

He smiled.

This was dissimilar from the charming glossy smile he granted towards the cameras and fans. Even from afar, his depicted beam oozed uneasiness as if it emerged from the pitch itself.

And that’s how it began.

You were sure that momentary interaction with Bunny was surely meaningless until a few nights later, the feeling of your phone vibrating at midnight with a message from a number that wasn’t saved in your contacts.

“Are you still awake Bunny?”

At first, it was harmless. Or so you told yourself.

You talked after practice.He’d bring you coffee before media days. He’d send private tickets for games.Always one, never two. He wanted you alone. Always.

Your coworkers within the department would consistently call you the ‘lucky girl’ the Bunny Iglesias had picked.

They didn’t understand. He didn’t pick you.

He had claimed you.