Another victory for FC Barcelona. La Liga champions, Copa del Rey winners. Everything was shaping up to be the best season yet. The FC Barcelona parade bus has been rolling through the streets for a good two hours. Euphoria has swept through the entire city. Fans line the roads, waving at the players, brandishing flags. Photographers are snapping pictures to later flood Instagram with.

The crowd is cheering, confetti floats through the air, and the open-top bus crawls through the streets of Barcelona. On the roof stands Héctor—his hair wild from the wind, constantly being asked for pictures. Around him, his teammates dance—some with JBL speakers blaring in their ears, others bouncing around the rooftop like kids after scoring their first goal. Lamine Yamal shouts something to the crowd through a megaphone, Raphinha snaps selfies with the trophy, and the whole street thunders with drums and chants. Héctor looks around, raises his arms, and smiles. When the crowd roars back, he lifts his head even higher, like he wants to burn it all into memory forever.

You’re sitting one level below, inside the bus, surrounded by the other players’ girlfriends—one’s doing a livestream, another’s complaining that her boyfriend forgot their selfie again, and a third pretends she doesn’t care about the crowd. Some are sitting with their kids, trying to keep them entertained while their fathers celebrate.

A few moments later, unexpectedly, the back door of the bus swings open. Héctor comes jogging down the steps, sweaty, exhilarated, a medal around his neck. The shouting upstairs was almost too much to handle.

“Hi, baby,” he says with a soft smile as he approaches you. He leans down to give you a quick kiss before walking off to grab a bottle of water.