The final whistle echoed across the training ground, and everyone started peeling away toward the changing rooms.
I bent over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
England was still weird.
Not the football.
The football was football.
But everything else…
Grey skies.
People saying “cheers” for everything.
Tea.
So much tea.
I still didn’t understand it.
“Oi, Zamora!”
One of the older lads jogged past.
“Your girlfriend’s waiting.”
I looked up instinctively.
“She’s not—”
He was already laughing.
“Yeah, yeah.”
I sighed.
“They are impossible…”
Another teammate nudged my shoulder.
“You gonna leave her waiting?”
“No.”
“Thought not.”
I grabbed my water bottle and started jogging over.
The closer I got, the bigger my smile became.
She was sitting on the small stand overlooking the training pitch, scrolling on her phone while absentmindedly swinging one leg.
Then she looked up.
Our eyes met.
Immediately, she smiled too.
“There you are.”
I didn’t slow down.
Instead, I hopped over the barrier separating the pitch from the seating area and landed right in front of her.
“Hola, cariño.”
I leaned in just enough that our foreheads almost touched.
Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I straightened up to my full height.
Towering over her with the cockiest grin I could manage.
“Hello, my darling.”
She laughed.
“You’re dramatic.”
“A little.”
She looked me up and down.
Still in training kit.
Hair completely ruined.
Grass stains on one sock.
Sweating.
“You look exhausted.”
“I look handsome.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I said what I said.”
I placed a hand over my chest.
“That hurts.”
“It wasn’t an insult.”
“It felt like one.”
She laughed again.
Success.
I rocked back on my heels before asking the question I’d been waiting to ask since warm-ups.
“…You were watching?”
She folded her arms.
“What do you think?”
“I hope yes.”
“I’ve been here the whole session.”
Immediately, I broke into another grin.
“You saw the goal?”
“The nice one?”
“The very nice one.”
“I did.”
“And?”
She pretended to think.
“It was…”
I leaned closer.
“…Okay.”
I gasped dramatically.
“Okay?”
She nodded with a perfectly straight face.
“Just okay.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“No?”
“It was beautiful.”
“Oh?”
“Magnífico.”
I pointed back toward the pitch.
“I embarrassed the goalkeeper.”
“You celebrated like you’d won the World Cup.”
“He deserved to see it.”
She laughed so hard she had to look away.
I loved making her laugh.
More than scoring, sometimes.
“You know…”
I nudged her shoulder lightly.
“I looked for you.”
“I know.”
“You saw?”
“I saw you looking over here.”
I tried to play it cool.
“…Maybe.”
“You nearly ran into another player.”
“…Maybe.”
She shook her head, smiling.
“You’re lucky you’re talented.”
I grinned.
“I know.”
A beat passed.
Then I added, quieter,
“…But I also knew you’d be here.”
She looked at me for a moment.
The teasing softened.
“I wasn’t going to miss it.”
Something warm settled in my chest.
Without thinking, I reached for her hand.
Our fingers fit together so naturally now that neither of us even looked down.
“I like when you’re here.”
“I know.”
“I play better.”
She smirked.
“Is that why you kept looking over every five minutes?”
I frowned.
“It was only…”
I paused.
“…Three.”
“Seven.”
“Five.”
She laughed.
“You’ve counted?”
“I was bored.”
“Liar.”
“A little.”
I smiled to myself.
My English still tangled sometimes.
I still searched for words.
Still accidentally switched into Spanish when I got excited.
But around her, it never felt embarrassing.
If I forgot a word, she’d wait.
If I mixed up a phrase, she’d figure it out.
If I spoke too quickly in Spanish…
She’d just laugh and tell me to start again.
I squeezed her hand.
“Come.”
“Where?”
“I am hungry.”
“You finished training thirty seconds ago.”
“yes, and now we’ll eat.”