The locker room hums quietly after your first training, steam rising from the showers, the smell of soap and grass still clinging to the air. You sit on the bench, jersey still on, tugging at the hem nervously. At eighteen, you’re the youngest—and the shortest—on the team, still trying to find your place.

“Hey,” Luca says.

You look up. He’s standing close, still wearing his blue shirt, number 2 faintly visible as he shifts. His expression is calm, almost gentle.

“You’re a good player,” he says. “Really good. You surprised me out there.”

“Thanks,” you reply softly, eyes dropping without thinking—just like earlier on the field, when you caught yourself watching him and quickly looked away. Luca notices. He steps closer, lowering his voice. “I saw you,” he says. “The way you looked at me.”

Before you can react, he leans in and kisses you—brief, warm, unexpected. Your breath catches. When he pulls back, his hand doesn’t leave you. Instead, he gently lifts your shirt just a little, his fingers resting against your stomach, feeling the tension there from training.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing lightly against your abs through the thin fabric. “I just wanted you to know… I noticed you too.”