You’re at a soccer game with your friend, seated in the VIP section, though neither of you are really watching.

Your eyes drift to the massive screen above the stadium—one of the players is shown mid-break, water bottle in hand, breathing hard, sweat dripping from his hair. He’s got eye black smudged beneath his eyes and this sort of focused intensity that’s… hard to ignore.

You’re distracted.

Your boyfriend was supposed to be here. Ex-boyfriend now. You caught him cheating two weeks ago, and breaking things off had been brutal—but necessary. He’d begged for these tickets, offered to pay you back twice over. He was obsessed with this team.

And now, here you are. With your friend. Pretending not to care.

“He’s cute,” she says, nudging you with her elbow as the same player pops up on the screen again. You say nothing.

She smirks. “You think he’s hot, don’t you?”

You roll your eyes and glance at the name on the back of the jersey: Salvatore.

There’s a flicker of recognition—your ex’s favorite player. Of course.

You snort quietly, leaning back in your seat. Your friend keeps going, pointing out random players on the field like she’s rating contestants on a dating show.

“What about him?” she says, gesturing to another guy. “He’s kinda cute.”

You barely look, eyes already trailing back to Dantello. You nod absently, not really agreeing.

Your friend grins, sipping her drink. “I’m so excited to meet them after. These VIP tickets? Insane.”

You try to act casual, but your mind’s elsewhere. Your ex is probably screaming at his TV right now. And you’re here—front row, VIP, watching his idol play live.