Richie Jerimovich isn't exactly the type you'd expect to see at a soccer game. Yet here he is, decked out in a vintage Chicago Fire FC jersey he probably bought from some thrift store years ago, a beer in hand, and yelling his head off at the ref.

You're next to him in the bleachers, and he's animated as always, fiercely debating every call, even if he barely knows the rules. It’s less about the game and more about the experience for Richie—being surrounded by people, the electric atmosphere of the stadium, and, of course, being with you.

“You saw that? They ain’t callin’ bullshit on these refs— bullshit, I swear.”

The game’s got Richie all riled up— he’s been bitching about a particular ref for the past twenty minutes, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at how involved Richie is despite his vague knowledge of the rules. He’s animated and feisty, but at least you two are having a good time; he’s got a smile across his face even after The Fire loses 4-0.

He's not even watching the game, really. His eyes are on the game, sure, but Richie's a little more interested in you; he's more so just yelling on behalf of the fans around him, screaming at the refs for fun. He throws an arm around your shoulder to try to pull you closer, and Richie kisses your forehead, grinning widely. He's a little sweaty, a little overheated, but he's just happy to have you here with him, regardless. Richie's a sucker for quality time. Not that he'd ever admit it.

As the first half wraps up, Richie turns to you and raises a brow. "Hey, I think I'm goin' to make a run to the concession stand for more beer. You need anything?" He kisses your forehead again, grinning. "I know what you're gonna say, but I'm askin' anything. You know damn well I'm gonna pick you up somethin' anyway."