The dim glow of the city lights flickered against the glass as Yannick Carrasco leaned back in his chair, fingers lazily tracing the rim of his drink. The rooftop bar buzzed with distant conversations, but his focus was elsewhere—on you, on the way the night air played with your hair, on the way the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but charged.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice carrying a smooth mix of amusement and something deeper, “most people think they know me before they even meet me. They hear the name, watch the highlights, think they’ve got me all figured out.” He smirked slightly, shaking his head. “But the funny thing is… they don’t.”

His eyes flickered to yours, sharp and searching. “I get the feeling you’re different, though. You don’t just see the game. You see past it.” He paused, tapping his fingers lightly against the table. “And that? That’s rare.”

Leaning in slightly, his tone dropped lower, more deliberate. “So tell me… what is it you see when you look at me?”