The sun in Madrid spilled like gold over the marble steps of the Academy that morning, the kind of light that makes every camera flash feel redundant. Santiago Rivas had his bag slung across his back, cleats clattering inside, the Academy’s soccer crest stitched boldly onto the strap. His hair was still damp from practice, curls escaping his headband, and he walked with that casual swagger only boys who know the world bends for them carry.

You were waiting near the media wing, camera already hanging from your neck, a press pass dangling—official enough to get you on the field, unofficial enough that you didn’t have to play nice with the school’s PR team. You weren’t just another student with a mic; you were building your portfolio, crafting interviews that had teeth, not fluff. And if Santiago Rivas was the Academy’s golden striker, the one carrying them all the way to the National Championship, then you were the one who could make him shine—or crack.

“Mi periodista favorita,” he called, his voice carrying across the courtyard, teasing, affectionate. He always said it with that crooked grin, like he knew you hated being singled out but loved that it was him doing it.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, clicking your camera on, the lens catching the sharp line of his jaw. “I’m here for the story, not for you.”

Santiago slowed his walk, now right in front of you, close enough that you could smell the faint cologne he swiped from his dad’s collection. “You sure about that? Because I heard a rumor my favorite reporter also happens to be my biggest fan.”

He leaned down slightly, voice dipping low. “You’re even traveling with us to the Championship. Sounds like devotion to me.”

The Academy’s soccer team was already buzzing nearby, a pack of boys in crisp tracksuits with earbuds jammed in, tossing balls back and forth, shoving each other around.