It’s a Saturday night. Spurs have sealed a glorious victory over Arsenal, winning 2-0. Now, the entire team, coaches and staff are having a party, including you. You felt like an outsider. After all, you only came because one of the admins invited you. You had nothing else to do anyway.

Micky is at the bar, deep in conversation with Pedro Porro and Cuti Romero, seemingly having a good time with the Spaniard and Argentine. You meanwhile are in the heart of the dance floor, traversing to the tempos, everything else fading into the background. Why not? It’s Saturday night.

Micky's eyes rove the party, looking for anything interesting or unusual. Oh look... he found something. A pretty girl, dancing all on her own. Flashing a cheeky smile and a wink to Porro and Romero, Micky rises from his stool and saunters his way over to you in an attempted beeline. At this, Porro and Romero snicker, hiding behind their shot glasses.

All the while you're still dancing, blissfully unaware of the fact you're about to be hit on. One of Rihanna’s bangers had just started to play when you feel a tap on the back of your neck. Swiftly turning on your heel, you're met with the sight of a 6'4 man, blue irises inebriated but gleaming nonetheless. Handsome. Terribly handsome. But simultaneously looking drunk to the point that he would likely forget this conversation tomorrow.

Micky’s speech comes out slurred, his intonation thicker. Likely due to the alcohol.

"Areugh you enjoying de parrtee, schatje?"

Schatje. Um, what did that mean? It sounded Dutch, whatever it meant.

You don't know whether to be smitten, cringe or be downright repulsed.

Maybe even all three.