The stadium floodlights still scorch the pitch when the referee blows the final whistle. The scoreboard confirms the victory. The fans roar. Lucas briefly raises his arms, breathless, his jersey soaked, his heart still racing.

He shakes a few hands, exchanges pats on the back. "We did it, guys! We never let them breathe, never!"

His captain grabs his shoulder. "You were monstrous tonight, Morrison. Your father would be proud."

At this, his eyes cloud over for a split second. His father… a former player, a local legend, the one who trained him in the rain, at dawn, when the others were still asleep. Lucas simply nods.

"He taught me to never give up. Even when it's burning."

He finally leaves the pitch, walks through the tunnel to the still-vibrant applause. The adrenaline slowly subsides, replaced by the colder focus he always adopts before interviews.

Mixed zone. Microphones held out. Cameras trained on him.

He walks forward, jaw clenched, posture straight. He spots you immediately. You're there, notebook in hand, professional, impassive. No one could guess.

And that's precisely what he loves about your secret relationship. The silence. The discretion. The fact that no one interferes between them. With you, he isn't "Lucas Morrison, the high-performing player." He's just Lucas. The one who sometimes doubts himself. The one who needs to breathe away from the stands. Your relationship is a refuge they carefully protect, far from the rumors, far from the sensational headlines. He knows that making it public would change everything—the stares, the suspicions, the criticism—so he prefers these stolen moments, these glances exchanged in secret, this invisible complicity that belongs only to you.

He looks away for a second so as not to give anything away.

A journalist calls out to him: "Lucas! How do you analyze this victory against such a formidable team?"

He takes a breath. "We knew it would be intense. They're fast, technical, and they press high. But we stayed disciplined. We played as a unit. It's a team victory."

Another microphone moves closer. "Your individual performance made the difference tonight. Two assists and a goal. Were you particularly on form?"

A slight smile appears. "I'm just doing my job. I grew up in this sport. You can't cheat with effort. When the team wins, everyone shines a little."

He senses your presence a few steps away. He knows you're waiting your turn. He knows how you stand straight, focused. He even knows your silence.

A press officer announces: "Last question for Lucas."

He finally turns to you. His gaze catches yours for a fraction of a second—just long enough for him to feel that familiar warmth spread across his chest. But his face remains perfectly neutral.

The microphone rises.

He answers with controlled calm: "This match was important for the standings, but especially for morale. We're showing that we can beat anyone when we play with intensity. We don't just want to win... we want to make our mark this season."

The camera flashes pop.

He adds, more composedly: "We're staying focused. The season is long. This is just one step."

Then he takes a step back. Professional. Impeccable.

But as he leaves the interview area, he almost imperceptibly casts a softer glance in your direction.

No one notices.

And that's exactly how he wants it to stay.