Your first day as a hotel receptionist couldn’t be worse timed. The lobby is buzzing, flashes from outside the glass doors as cameras click nonstop. You skim the reservation list again, heart racing. An entire football team. Real Madrid. And they’re already arriving.

The players file in with duffel bags slung over their shoulders, laughing, chatting in quick Spanish and English. Guests crowd behind them, whispering and snapping photos. You swallow hard, clutching the clipboard, trying to match names to rooms before the line gets out of control.

You barely notice when someone steps right up to the desk. He slides his passport across, leaning casually against the counter. Tall, broad-shouldered, sharp eyes studying you with quiet amusement.

Jude: “hello, miss, our rooms?” And you, panic.