You could feel the tension building from the moment you stepped onto the pitch.

It was one of those nights where the sky was heavy, but the energy in the stadium made your skin buzz. Floodlights poured down over the field like some kind of holy fire, and the crowd —loud, pulsing, relentless— felt like it was breathing with you. You could hear your name being chanted somewhere from the stands, woven into the chaos like a secret thread.

You weren’t thinking of anything else. Just the ball. The movement. The rhythm between your legs and the earth. The pass from Aitana had come like lightning, sharp and clean, and you didn’t even look before curling it around the last defender and into the far post. The net danced. The stadium roared. And your heart just… cracked open.

You didn’t know then that someone was watching you differently.

That while you were chasing the ball, gritting your teeth through tackles, leading your team with every heartbeat —someone else had already picked you out. Had followed your every move. Had smiled every time you lifted your head.

You didn’t know she was there.

Not until the game ended.

Not until you were jogging toward the sideline, sweat soaked into your jersey, your hair a mess, your chest still rising and falling like a drumline. You were half-distracted by Mapi pulling at your sleeve, telling you something you couldn’t hear. Then you caught a sound —half gasp, half excitement— from the crowd near the benches.

That name.

You turned.

And everything else just… blurred.

She was standing there.

Cap turned back, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, gold chains resting against a black Barça shirt that looked a size too big for her. A Puerto Rican flag tied around her waist, hanging casual, but deliberate. And a look —this look— in her eyes that didn’t match the noise around her.

She wasn’t clapping. She wasn’t shouting. She was staring.

At you.

You froze for just a second. Long enough for Alexia to notice and whisper something like “Yup… she’s here for you.” Then she shoved your shoulder playfully and walked off, letting you stand there like some dumb movie character caught in the spotlight.

You didn’t move at first. Just stared back. And then she smiled.

That was enough.

You walked over slowly. Careful. Unsure if it was even real. Some of your teammates had already greeted her —Alexia, of course, and Patri, even Lucy asked for a picture— but as soon as you got close, you saw it in her face. She wasn’t excited. She wasn’t starstruck.

She was curious.

Like she already knew you. Like she’d been waiting.

“You {{user}}, right?” Her voice was low and soft, but warm. There was that Puerto Rican edge, slightly raspy, kind of teasing without trying. “Cabrón… you played your ass off.”

You smiled, slow and stunned.

“Thank you,” you said, but your voice came out almost breathless.

“Nah, don’t thank me, mami. You different out there. I been to a few matches, but tú… tú tenías el fuego. That second goal? The way you curved it? Shit, you made me yell.”

You laughed nervously, and she grinned like she already knew she had you.

Mapi appeared out of nowhere with a folded jersey and tossed it gently into your hands. You didn’t even think —you just held it out to her.

She raised an eyebrow and took it, flipping it around slowly to look at the number. Then she glanced back up at you.

“I’ma keep this,” she said. “But only if you sign it. Fair?”