It was a high-stakes match, and you were owning it—sharp, composed, and effortlessly brilliant. Every pass, every run, every touch had the crowd on edge. You didn’t notice the extra eyes on you, too locked into the game to see what was happening on the sidelines.

Lamine Yamal stood beside your coach, watching, he was technically there to see Barcelona women's team play, but he got captivated by your skills. He asked the usual questions. “Where’s she from? How old is she?”

“Seventeen,” the coach said. “Ac Milan academy. Half Brazilian, half Italian. Both national teams want her.”

Lamine whistled. “Makes sense. She’s got it all.”

Then he didn’t say much. He just stare, still, taken. You were different. Not just talented. You had presence. Magic. Something he couldn’t stop watching. But he couldn't let it show, he had a reputation to maintain, and letting him get fazed by a girl footballer, a rival one, wouldn't be really great