reina ݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆

and then there’s kenan, whose name gets dragged into tabloid headlines alongside whispers of the girls he was spotted with on the streets of turin. he knows what you think of him. or, at least, what he assumes you think. you keep your distance with a polite smile that drives him absolutely insane. whenever the families gather, you offer him a pleasant smile, a brief "congratulations on the season," and then you slip away. nothing more than a one-liner compliment instead of flattery like the girls on his social media. nothing like the days when you used to chase him around while he pretended to be spider-man.

that pisses him off.

he’s supposed to be the one who doesn’t care, right? he has the fame, the stadium cheering his name, the lifestyle most guys his age would kill for. he shouldn’t care that you treat him like background noise.

he cares. perhaps a little too much.

kenan finds himself consciously avoiding the girls who flock to him, pulling away from the easy, fleeting attention that used to be second nature, all because the thought of you hearing another rumour makes his stomach churn. he wants to prove to you the discipline it takes to stand where he stands, a passion for football that matches your own career-driven intensity, if only you’d look close enough to see it.

the kenan before and beneath all the stardom.

the next time the families meet for dinner, you’re standing by the balcony, the evening breeze catching your hair as you laugh with another family friend. he was like you. focused and ambitious. worst of all, he was totally your type.

kenan watches from across the room, the glass of water hard in his grip. the guy you’re talking to is leaning in close, his posture relaxed, his smile far too comfortable.

he doesn’t think twice. he moves through the living room with an intensity that makes people instinctively step aside. he reaches the balcony before he has a coherent plan, his hand closing firmly, though not unkindly, around your upper arm.

“excuse us,” kenan says, his voice low, and that shuts down your conversation with your friend instantly. he doesn’t wait for an answer. he steers you away from the party and into the shadows of the far corner of the terrace. your brow furrows as you pull your arm free, your expression shifting from amusement to confusion. “i was in the middle of a conversation.”

he stops, turning to face you. the silence that follows is heavy, thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and his own panic. now that he has your undivided attention, his bravado evaporates into the cool evening air. he’s standing there, caught in his own trap. he’s pulled you away, and he suddenly has no idea how to explain that he just couldn’t stand the way that guy looked at you.

he rubs the back of his neck, his jaw tight, his gaze dropping to the floor before flicking back to yours.

“i just…” he starts, then stops, his voice losing its edge. “i know you haven’t had the best impression of me.”

you blink, taken aback, but you let him continue.

“and i know you want nothing to do with me,” he mumbles, his shoulders slumping just a fraction. he looks smaller now, less like juventus' star boy and more like the boy who used to hide behind you during thunderstorms. “i get it. i’m a headache.” he looks up, his eyes filled with a sincerity that makes your breath hitch. “but i’m not that guy anymore, i’ve been trying to be someone you’d actually want to talk to for more than ten seconds.”

he reaches out, his fingers hovering briefly near your hand before he pulls them back, shy and uncertain. “i don’t you to avoid me. i want us to talk like we used to, when we were kids.”

it’s entirely undignified. it’s the most honest thing he’s ever said to you. and as he stands there, fidgeting with his fingers, waiting for your rejection, he looks so painfully sincere (and adorable) that the walls you’ve been building start to crack.

he’s just entirely, hopelessly trying to be someone worthy of your time. and this is the last thing you expected from the kenan yildiz. you realise he’s been trying to change his ways, for you. you stare at him, your ambitions completely derailed by the way he’s looking at you. you’re not annoyed anymore. you’re terrified.

you crack a small smile before stifling a soft laugh. kenan furrows his brow in confusion, still anticipating your response. god, he looks so much like a kicked puppy right now.

“stop looking at me like that.” you look away, heat crawling up your cheeks.

“like what?” kenan leans closer with a raised brow, oblivious to your reaction. his presence is suddenly overwhelming. you can smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne.

you’re standing on the pieces of a wall you once built to protect yourself from this. the principles you once swore you’d never betray, especially not for kenan. are you crossing your own line?

this was going to be a long night, and you can only smile.

it’s really nice to talk to you, often in the sunset on the way home, with an apple cider bottle in your hand. which makes him question why your hair smells like fruit punch (it should smell like apple cider instead). confessing and confronting feelings he’s not quite sure of, afraid of what you think of him. why would he ruin this tender friendship when spending time with you now feels so safe? so comfortable? even if you’re just friends, you could be more than that. maybe it’s easier to pour all of his feelings into his games, to score goals and quietly dedicate them to you without you ever knowing.

and when you show up to his game the next week, he scans the crowd after he scores, just to find you already on your feet cheering the loudest for him.

he realises he’s lost the battle he’s been fighting.

because even if kenan swears he doesn’t even like you that much.

wait.

he does.

fuck.