𐙚 ‧₊˚ and long, long live that look on your face. and bring on all the pretenders, one day, we will be remembered..

Cillian ran a hand through his unruly hair, the green jersey clinging to his sweat-slicked skin. He stared across the field, a simmering rage bubbling in his chest. He didn't know why, but the arrogant Italian player with the dark hair and brown eyes and cocky smirk, who he'd only just seen in pre-game warm-ups, was already getting on his nerves.

“He thinks he’s all that,” Cillian muttered under his breath, the words barely audible over the roar of the crowd.

The Italian, oblivious to Cillian's animosity, was showing off his footwork, juggling the ball with a casual ease that made Cillian's blood pressure rise. He felt a strange mix of anger and admiration.

Focus, he thought to himself, forcing his gaze away from the Italian. The whistle blew, and the game began. The tension, the rivalry, the competitive fire - it all masked something deeper simmering beneath the surface. They were rivals, but something else was brewing. They just didn't know it yet.