The roar of the crowd was deafening, but João’s mind was somewhere quite locked on you. Under the searing lights of the World Cup stadium, he danced around defenders, every muscle primed and aching for victory. Yet, in every break, every touch of the ball, his thoughts drifted to you.

You had flown in despite the chaos impossible schedules, press swarms, endless security. Somehow, you were his only calm in the storm. Back in the team hotel, after a grueling day of practice and media, João found you waiting in the lounge, exhaustion written in your eyes but a smile that still melted him. He dropped his bag and practically collapsed into your arms.

“You always show up,” he said softly.

“I promised,” you whispered.

The world outside was a whirlwind. Cameras flashed. Voices yelled. But here, wrapped in your warmth, he found peace. Match day was electric. When he scored, the stadium erupted, but all he saw was you cheering, shouting his name, waving that little Portuguese flag you’d secretly brought from home. Later, when the celebrations faded and the team rested, João pulled you into the empty stands.

“You’re my luck,” he said, voice rough. “Every goal, every win it’s for you.”

You smiled, heart full, fingers lacing with his.

“This isn’t just a game anymore,” João murmured. “This is our moment.”

He kissed you, fierce and tender all at once.In a world of flashing lights and endless pressure, you were the only constant he could hold onto.