The notification lit up Álvaro’s phone, a beacon in the quiet of the locker room. A new post from @y.n.rose. A slow, instinctive smile spread across his face before he could stop it, the kind that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

It was a picture of her, holding a cup of coffee, her nose scrunched adorably against the Madrid sun. The caption read: ‘need a coffee IV drip. also, someone tell my childhood bestie @alvarocarreras to stop stealing my energy and win today. ¡hala madrid! 💋’

His thumb hovered and tapped ‘like’ before he’d even fully processed the words, a reflex honed over years. Liked by alvarocarreras and 48,392 others. He locked his phone, tossed it into his locker with a soft thud, and tried to ignore the familiar, warm heat creeping up his neck. He’d liked it in forty-seven seconds. Again.

“Carreras!” a voice boomed, echoing off the tiled walls. Antonio Rüdiger’s head popped over the locker divider, a wide, knowing grin splitting his face. “Was that the famous Y/N? Did you break your phone smashing the like button again? I heard the tap from over here.”

Álvaro groaned, pulling his damp training shirt over his head to hide his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Toni. It was probably a club post.”

“A club post?” Toni laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “The club does not make you blush like a schoolboy. Come on, man. The five-minute rule! You pulverize it every time. The whole internet has a timer on you. My little cousin showed me a TikTok edit of your like history. It’s set to dramatic music.”

“There is no rule,” Álvaro muttered, his voice muffled by the fabric. “People have too much time on their hands.”

“There is!” Toni insisted, leaning further over the divider. “If Álvaro Carreras does not like Y/N’s post within five minutes of it going live, the world has officially ended. It is a sign of the apocalypse. We must all panic.” He clapped a heavy hand on Álvaro’s bare shoulder. “Just ask her out already. We are all tired of the pining. It is more exhausting than a double session with Ancelotti.”

“It’s not pining,” Álvaro defended, finally emerging from his shirt, his hair tousled. “We’re friends. We’ve always been friends. It’s… support.”

Toni gave him a look of pure, unadulterated disbelief. “Support. Ja, klar. And I am just a supportive friend to the goalpost when I score. Tell yourself that, mein Junge. But the entire Santiago Bernabéu knows the truth.” He winked and disappeared back to his own locker, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like a wedding march.

Álvaro sighed, slumping onto the bench. He scrolled through his phone again, zooming in on her picture. She looks happy, he thought. Tired, but happy. He typed out a comment: ‘I’ll return your energy after the match. With interest.’ He backspaced it. Too forward. He tried again: ‘Café con leche, two sugars. I know your order.’ He deleted that too. Pathetic. He settled for a simple fire emoji and immediately felt like an idiot.

(FLASHBACK)

The sun was high and merciless over the dusty pitch in Mostoles. Ten-year-old Álvaro, swimming in an oversized, hand-me-down Real Madrid jersey, scowled as the ball rolled past him for what felt like the hundredth time.

“You’re too slow, Alvi!” a seven-year-old Y/N yelled from the sidelines, her giggles mixing with the shouts of the other boys. She was his personal, self-appointed cheerleader and critic, all rolled into one tiny, sunburned package.

After the final whistle, he trudged over to her, kicking at clumps of dry dirt. “I’m never going to be good enough for the real team,” he mumbled, his voice thick with the threat of tears he was too proud to shed. “My passing is awful.”

Y/N hopped off the rusty metal bench, her tiny hand patting his muddy arm. “Yes, you are. You’re the best one out there.”

“You’re just saying that because you have to. You’re my friend.”

“Nuh-uh.” She poked his side, making him squirm. “I’m your friend, so I have to tell you the truth. And the truth is you’re the best. Pinky promise.” She held out her little finger, her expression deadly serious, her eyes wide.

He looked at her grubby finger, then into her earnest face. He linked his pinky with hers, a solemn vow sealed in the dusty air. “When I play at the Santiago Bernabéu, you’ll be there to cheer for me. Right in the front row. And I’ll make a goal for you.”

“Of course I will,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ll make you a big poster so you can find me.”

“And I’ll save you my jersey,” he declared, puffing out his chest.

“Ew, it’ll be all sweaty!” she squealed, scrunching her nose exactly like she did in the coffee photo.

“It’s a trophy! It’s an honor!” he argued, his despair completely forgotten in the face of her mock disgust. “You have to take it!”

“Fine,” she sighed, with the dramatic air of a queen accepting a burdensome tribute. “But you have to wash it first.”

They both laughed, the sound echoing across the empty field, a perfect, tiny bubble of childhood joy.

__

“He did it again!” Y/N squealed, throwing her phone onto the plush white couch in her management’s office. “Forty-seven seconds! How does he even see it that fast? He’s supposed to be in training! He’s going to get in trouble with Ancelotti because of me.”

Her manager, Sofia, didn’t even look up from her laptop, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Because he has post notifications on for you and only you, cariña. It is the least subtle thing in the entire world of football, and that is a world full of very unsubtle men. The fans have entire conspiracy threads about it. There’s a Twitter bot that tracks his like time. It’s called @CarrerasClock.”

“It’s not like that,” Y/N insisted, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “We’ve been friends since we were five. He’s just… supportive. He’s always been my biggest supporter.”

Sofia finally looked up, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Supportive? Y/N, the boy once ‘accidentally’ used the club’s official account to like a picture of you in a bikini on a beach in Ibiza. They had to issue a formal statement to Marca about a ‘hacking incident’. His mother still calls me once a month to laugh about it. She asks me when I’m going to start planning your wedding so she can help with the floral arrangements.”

Y/N felt a hot blush creep up her neck. “That was a mistake! He was logged in on the team iPad and he didn’t realize it.”

“Mistake,” Sofia repeated dryly. “Right. And him commenting the heart eyes emoji on your anniversary post about your abuela passing last year? The one that was a black-and-white picture of you crying? That was also a mistake?”

“He was being sweet!” Y/N defended, but her voice was weaker now. “He was just… comforting me.”

“He was professing his undying love in the comments section for 12 million people to see, is what he was doing,” Sofia corrected, closing her laptop with a definitive click. “Look, I manage your brand. And your brand is currently inextricably linked to a very handsome, very talented, and very smitten Real Madrid defender. The public loves it. The engagement on posts that mention him is 300% higher. I’m not telling you to date him for the clicks… but I’m also not not telling you that.”

“It’s complicated, Sof,” Y/N sighed, her gaze drifting to the cityscape of Madrid outside the window. “He’s Alvi. He’s the boy who used to eat worms to make me laugh. What if we ruin it? What if it’s weird? I’d rather have him as my best friend than not have him at all.”

Sofia’s expression softened. “Cariña, from where I’m sitting, he hasn’t been just your best friend for a very, very long time.”

(FLASHBACK)

It was Y/N’s sixteenth birthday party, held in the Carreras’ bustling backyard. Álvaro, seventeen and having just signed his first youth contract with Real Madrid, was buzzing with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with football.

He’d spent two months of his first paycheque on a necklace, a delicate silver chain with a tiny, rose-shaped pendant. He’d hidden the small box in his pocket all night, his palm sweating around it.

He found her by the fairy-lit fence, slightly apart from the crowd. “Hey. Having fun?”

“Best birthday ever,” she beamed, a little tipsy on stolen sips of cava. “You’re being weirdly quiet, Alvi. You okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah. Fine. Great.” He swallowed, his throat dry. “I, uh. I got you something.”

He thrust the box into her hands, looking anywhere but at her face. She opened it, her gasp audible over the music. “Alvi… this is… it’s too much.”

“It’s not,” he said quickly. “It’s… it made me think of you. You know. Y/N. Rose. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the petals. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Help me put it on?”

His hands were trembling as he fumbled with the clasp, his fingers brushing against the nape of her neck. She shivered.

“There,” he said, his voice rough. He finally dared to look at her. The fairy lights were reflected in her eyes, and she was looking at him like he’d hung the moon.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft. “I’ll never take it off.”

He believed her. In that moment, he would have given her the moon if he could. The moment stretched, charged and fragile. He leaned in slightly, his heart a wild drum in his chest.

“Y/N! Álvaro! Cake!” her mother’s voice called from across the lawn.

The spell shattered. She jumped back, a blush high on her cheeks. “We should… cake.”

“Yeah. Cake,” he echoed, his heart sinking like a stone.

She never did take the necklace off.

PRESENT DAY

The match was a comfortable 3-0 win against a low-tier team. Álvaro had gotten solid minutes, even managing a key pass that led to a goal. The roar of the Bernabéu was a drug, but as the final whistle blew, his mind was already elsewhere.

He scanned the crowd habitually, his eyes automatically finding her seat. She was there, just like she always was, clapping and laughing with a friend. She wasn’t holding a poster. She never did. She’d told him once she didn’t need one. “You always find me with your secret superpowers, Alvi,” she’d said. He’d laughed it off, but the truth was, his eyes were just always drawn to her. It was his oldest habit.

After the post-match debrief and a quick shower, he found her waiting in the familiar, slightly quieter hallway under the stadium, a sanctuary amidst the chaos. She was leaning against the whitewashed wall, phone in hand, probably already crafting a post, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“You came,” he said, his voice softer than he intended, still hoarse from shouting on the pitch.

She looked up, and her smile was the same one from the dusty pitch in Mostoles, just brighter, more confident. It still hit him square in the chest. “I pinky promised, didn’t I? Good game, Alvi. That pass was incredible.”

He leaned against the wall next to her, their shoulders brushing. A jolt, familiar and electric, passed through him at the contact. “You bring me luck.”

“Your left foot brings you luck,” she corrected, nudging him playfully with her elbow. “I just post about it. My stories are already blowing up with that assist.”

“It’s not the same without your weird little good luck selfies,” he said, bumping her shoulder back. “The one from today was… good.”

She looked up at him, a teasing glint in her eye. “Just good?”

“The nose scrunch was a solid 9/10,” he said, playing along, falling into their easy rhythm. “Could have used a little more coffee cup tilt, but the lighting was impeccable.”

She laughed, that light, airy sound that he’d secretly downloaded a ringtone of years ago and never told a soul. He paused, the noise of the celebrating stadium fading into a dull roar around them. “Remember when you said you’d make a poster so I could find you?”

“Yeah,” she said, her smile softening. “I had it all planned out. It was going to be glittery and absolutely massive. I never needed one, though.” She looked down at her shoes, then back up at him through her lashes. “I always know where you are. And you… you always find me.”

Their eyes locked, and the years of unsaid words hung heavy and warm between them. The ‘likes’, the late-night calls when the pressure felt like too much, the way his family automatically set a place for her at every holiday dinner, the way her parents asked about him first whenever she called home.

His courage, bolstered by the adrenaline of the game and her proximity, surged. “People… um… people think there’s a thing,” he blurted out, immediately cringing at his own lack of game. Smooth, Carreras. Real smooth.

“A thing?” she played along, that same teasing glint back, but he could see the faint blush staining her cheeks. She was nervous too.

“Yeah. A… a five-minute rule. About me liking your photos.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s… it’s a whole thing, apparently. Toni won’t shut up about it.”

“Oh, that.” She waved a dismissive hand, though the blush deepened. “It’s silly. Just fan stuff. You know how they are. They see a story and they run with it.”

“Right. Silly.” He nodded, his courage deflating like a punctured ball. He grasped for something, anything, to salvage the moment. He remembered the promise. The jersey. It was safe. It was tradition. He started to pull his training top over his head. “Anyway. Here. It’s, uh. Still sweaty. Sorry. A bit grass-stained, too.”

He held it out, the white fabric damp and smudged with green. It wasn't the match-worn jersey, but the one he’d warmed up in. It still smelled like him, sweat, grass, and his stupidly expensive cologne.

Y/N looked from the offered jersey to his face, her teasing expression melting into something unbearably tender and real. She took it, her fingers brushing against his, and clutched it to her chest like it was made of gold and diamonds, not polyester and sweat.

“You know,” she said softly, her voice barely a whisper. “My manager says you’re the least subtle person on the planet.”

A relieved laugh escaped him. “Yeah? Well, my teammates say you’re the only thing I can pass to with any accuracy.”

They stood there, smiling like the fools they were, surrounded by the echoes of their childhood promises and the palpable, thrilling tension of what could be.

“The five-minute rule isn’t real, you know,” she whispered, taking a small step closer, closing the gap between them. The hallway seemed to shrink.

“It’s not?” he whispered back, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape and go to her. He could smell her perfume, something sweet and floral, over the scent of his own jersey.

“No.” She reached up, her movements slow and deliberate, and brushed a stray, sweaty curl from his forehead. Her touch was electric. “Because you never actually take five minutes. You’re always faster.”

He finally closed the distance, his forehead resting against hers. He could feel her warm breath on his lips. “Maybe,” he murmured, his voice low, “I just don’t like to wait for what I really want.”

He felt her breath catch. Her eyes flickered down to his lips. This was it. The moment he’d played out in his head a thousand times.

“¡Álvaro! ¡Oye, fenomenal hoy!”

They jumped apart like scalded cats. It was Dani, clapping him on the back, completely oblivious to the scene he’d just interrupted. “Great pass, man! We’re heading to Casa Luis for some food. You in? You coming, Y/N?”

Álvaro’s shoulders slumped. The moment was gone, shattered by the well-intentioned camaraderie of the team. He looked at Y/N, who was now looking at Nacho with a slightly dazed, polite smile.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure,” Álvaro said, his voice strained. “Just give us a sec.”

“Don’t be long!” Dani called, already walking away.

Silence descended again, but the magic was broken, replaced by a awkward shyness.

“You should go,” Y/N said, hugging his jersey tighter. “The team’s waiting.”

“You could come,” he offered, though he knew she wouldn’t. Team dinners after a match were a sacred, players-only ritual.

She shook her head, smiling softly. “I’ve got a bunch of content to edit from today. But… text me when you get home?”

It was their thing. A habit started when they were teenagers and would talk on the phone until dawn.

“Always do,” he said.

She bit her lip, then, in a move that stole the air from his lungs, she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a soft, quick kiss to his cheek. Her lips were impossibly soft. “For good luck,” she whispered, her face flaming scarlet. Before he could even process it, she turned and practically fled down the hallway, his jersey still clutched in her hands.

He stood there, frozen, his fingers slowly rising to touch the spot on his cheek where her lips had been. It burned.

Dani popped his head back around the corner. “¡Vamos, Carreras! You look like you’ve seen a ghost. A happy ghost.”

Álvaro just shook his head, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face. “Something like that.”

__

The team dinner at Casa Luis was a cacophony of clinking glasses, boisterous laughter, and the easy camaraderie of victory. Plates of sizzling gambas al ajillo and jamón ibérico covered the long table. Álvaro, however, was miles away. He picked at his food, the phantom sensation of Y/N's lips on his cheek a brand that overshadowed everything else.

“Earth to Carreras,” Dani said, snapping his fingers in front of Álvaro’s face. “You’ve been staring at that shrimp for five minutes. If you’re not going to eat it, I will.”

Toni leaned over, his voice a stage whisper that carried down the table. “He is not hungry for food. He is hungry for love. He is nourished by the kiss of his beloved.”

The entire table erupted in a chorus of “Ooooooh!” and laughter. Álvaro’s ears turned bright red. “She didn’t, it wasn’t a kiss-kiss. It was a… a friend thing. A cheek thing.”

“A ‘cheek thing’ that has you looking like you’ve been possessed by the spirit of a lovesick puppy,” Luka added dryly, a small smile playing on his lips. The veteran’s quiet teasing was somehow more effective than Toni’s loud proclamations.

“It is true,” Toni continued, undeterred. “His soul left his body in that hallway. I saw it. It was a beautiful, floating spirit, following her out the door.”

“Will you shut up,” Álvaro groaned, but he was fighting a grin. He couldn’t help it. The team’s ribbing was a constant in his life, a sign of acceptance. And tonight, it felt different. It felt like they were teasing him about something that was… true.

His phone buzzed on the table. A collective, synchronized lean from every player nearby occurred.

Y/N: hope the food is good. tell toni i heard his commentary from here.

Álvaro snatched his phone up, turning his body away from the prying eyes.

Álvaro: it’s loud. and he’s insufferable. how’s the editing?

Y/N: boring. i’m distracted.

His heart did a stupid little flip.

Álvaro: oh yeah? by what?

Three dancing dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. The entire table was silently watching him, forks suspended in mid-air.

Y/N: a certain sweaty jersey that’s currently on my bed. it smells like grass and… you. it’s a very distracting smell.

Álvaro’s breath hitched. This was new. This was flirting. Actual, undeniable, not-just-friendly flirting.

Álvaro: sorry. i can come take it back.

Y/N: don’t you dare. i’m keeping it. it’s my trophy. my honor. remember?

He did remember. The dusty pitch. The pinky promise. He looked at the words on his screen, and it was like the last seventeen years collapsed into this single, perfect moment.

Álvaro: i remember everything.

The dots danced again.

Y/N: me too. have fun with the guys. text me when you’re home?

Álvaro: always.

He put his phone down, a slow, utterly besotted smile spreading across his face that he couldn’t have suppressed if he tried.

“He is a goner,” Toni announced to the table with finality. “We have lost him. It was a noble sacrifice. Let us toast to our fallen brother!”

Álvaro just laughed, finally grabbing a shrimp and throwing it at Toni’s head. He felt light, buoyant, like he could run another ninety minutes without breaking a sweat.

__

Y/N was curled up in her bed, Álvaro’s jersey tucked under her chin like a security blanket. She’d been trying to edit a vlog for an hour and had gotten approximately nowhere. The screen was a blur. All she could see was the look in his eyes in that hallway right before Nacho interrupted. It was a look she’d seen glimpses of for years, but tonight it had been completely naked, completely undisguised.

Her phone buzzed. Sofia.

Sofia: So??? How did the jersey handoff go? Do we need to prepare a statement for the press? “Influencer Y/N Announces She’s Off the Market, Heartbreak for Millions”?

Y/N giggled, typing back.

Y/N: very funny. it was… eventful.

Sofia: Eventful how? Did he finally use his words? Or just communicate through the intense, smoldering eye contact he’s so famous for?

Y/N: there might have been a… cheek kiss.

Three phone emojis immediately appeared from Sofia, followed by a string of celebratory GIFs.

Sofia: I’M SORRY A CHEEK KISS??? DETAILS. NOW. WHOSE CHEEK? WHOSE LIPS? WAS THERE A SIGH?

Y/N: my lips. his cheek. it was impulsive! i panicked!

Sofia: You PANICKED and your panic response is to PLANT ONE ON HIM? Y/N, that is not panic. That is SUBCONSCIOUS MANIFESTATION. Your soul has been trying to do that for a decade. Your body just finally caught up.

Y/N stared at the message. Subconscious manifestation. The term rattled around in her head. Was that true? Had every supportive like, every late-night call, every lingering hug been a step towards this?

She thought about the necklace she still wore every day, tucked under her clothes. She thought about the way her heart still did a little leap every time his name popped up on her screen. She thought about the fact that no matter how many famous actors or musicians slid into her DMs, none of them were him.

Sofia was right. She’d been manifesting this for a lifetime.

(FLASHBACK)

It was their first year at university, a massive party at a crowded frat house. Y/N, feeling overwhelmed and a little out of place, had lost Álvaro to a group of football fans the second they’d walked in.

She was trying to make polite conversation when a guy from her economics class, Marco, slid an arm around her waist, his breath smelling strongly of cheap beer. “Hey, beautiful. I’ve been looking for you all night.”

She tried to gently extricate herself. “Hey, Marco. I’m actually here with someone.”

“That football guy?” Marco sneered, his grip tightening. “Please. He’s probably already forgotten about you. Those guys have a different girl every night.”

Before she could retort, a figure materialized at her side. Álvaro. His expression was calm, but his eyes were dark, stormy. He’d always been lean, but university training had filled him out, and he suddenly seemed to take up all the space in the room.

“She said she’s with someone,” Álvaro said, his voice low and dangerously even. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

Marco, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, immediately dropped his arm. “Hey, man, no problem. Just chatting.”

“Chat’s over,” Álvaro said, his gaze never leaving Marco’s until the other boy slunk away into the crowd.

He turned to Y/N, his expression softening instantly. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she breathed, her heart pounding from the adrenaline. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he said, his jaw tight. He looked genuinely angry in a way she rarely saw. He guided her through the crowd, his hand a firm, protective brand on the small of her back. Once they were outside in the cool air, he finally stopped, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I hate it when guys look at you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re… a prize. Not a person.” He shook his head. “Forget it. Let’s get out of here. We can get pizza.”

He was quiet on the walk home, the anger still radiating off him in waves. It wasn’t until he was walking her to her dorm door that he spoke again.

“You know that’s not true, right?” he said, his voice quiet.

“What is?”

“What he said. About guys like me. About me forgetting about you.” He finally looked at her, and the intensity in his eyes stole her breath. “I could never forget about you, Y/N. Not for a second.”

It was the closest he’d ever come to saying it. She’d just smiled, her heart in her throat, and said, “I know, Alvi. Pizza next Friday?”

And he’d nodded, the moment passing once again, leaving a trail of what-ifs in its wake.

___

The text came a week later, from his mother, of all people.

Mama C: ¡Hola, cariño! The foundation gala is next Saturday. Álvaro is being honored with the Youth Inspiration award. He’s terrified of the speech. Would you come? For moral support? I’ll make sure you’re at our table. xx

Y/N didn’t even have to think about it.

Y/N: I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Tell him he’ll be amazing.

The Real Madrid Foundation Gala was a glittering, star-studded affair. Y/N, in a stunning emerald green gown that Sofia had called “a statement,” felt a flutter of nerves as she entered the ballroom. She immediately spotted the Carreras family. And him.

Álvaro was wearing a tailored black tuxedo, his hair perfectly styled, but he looked adorably uncomfortable, fiddling with his cufflinks. When he saw her, his entire posture changed. His eyes widened, a slow smile spreading across his face that made her knees feel weak.

“You came,” he said, his voice full of wonder, as she approached.

“Your mom recruited me,” she said, smiling. “She said you needed a friendly face.”

“I always need yours,” he said, so earnestly it made her blush. He offered her his arm. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

The evening was a whirlwind. They were seated together, and it felt natural, easy. He held her chair for her. His hand found its way to the small of her back as they navigated the room. Photographers called their names constantly, and they posed together, his arm around her waist, her hand on his chest. Every touch felt charged, amplified by the watchful eyes of the public.

“They’re loving this,” Sofia whispered, gliding past her at one point, phone in hand. “#CarrerasRose is trending. The photos are… incendiary.”

Y/N could believe it. The way he was looking at her in every picture wasn’t the way a friend looked at another friend.

When he went up to accept his award, he looked nervous. He fumbled with the note cards in his hands. He started his speech, thanking the club, the foundation, his family. His eyes scanned the crowd and found hers. He stopped, took a deep breath, and smiled. He crumpled the cards in his hand and put them in his pocket.

“I had a whole speech written,” he said into the microphone, his voice clearer now. “But the person who inspired me most to work with youth isn’t on those cards.” He looked directly at her. “When we were kids, playing on a dusty pitch, she promised me she’d be in the stands when I made it. She told a scared, slow kid that he was the best player on the field. She believed in me before anyone else did. That’s the power of support. That’s the power of believing in someone’s dream, even when it seems impossible. So… thank you, Y/N. For everything.”

The room erupted in applause. Y/N felt tears welling in her eyes, her hand pressed to her mouth. The cameras were undoubtedly zoomed in on her reaction, but she didn’t care. In that moment, it was just him and her.

He walked off the stage to a standing ovation, but he only had eyes for her. He walked straight to their table, ignoring everyone else, and pulled her into a tight hug right there in the middle of the ballroom.

“You were amazing,” she whispered into his ear, her voice thick with emotion.

“I meant every word,” he whispered back, his hold tightening.

The rest of the night passed in a dream. They danced. He held her close during a slow song, his hand warm on her back, her head tucked against his shoulder. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“You know,” he murmured into her hair, “everyone is looking at us.”

“Let them look,” she said, surprising herself. She looked up at him. “I don’t care anymore.”

The song ended, but he didn’t let go. The air between them crackled. The noise of the gala faded into a distant hum. He was going to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes. She leaned in slightly, giving him permission.

A flashbulb went off, startlingly close. A reporter had somehow gotten far too near. “Álvaro! Y/N! Over here! Are you two finally confirming the rumors?”

The spell was broken, again. Álvaro’s face shut down, the public persona sliding into place. He gently guided her away from the dance floor, shielding her with his body. “Not here,” he said to her, his voice tight with frustration. “I’m not doing this with them watching.”

It was the right thing to do, the smart thing. But it felt like another delay, another interruption in a lifetime of them.

__

The match against Barcelona was the biggest of the season. The tension in the Bernabéu was a living, breathing entity. Y/N was in her usual seat, her nerves stretched taut. Every pass, every tackle, every near-miss felt monumental.

With the score tied 1-1 and only minutes left on the clock, the ball broke loose on the edge of the box. It landed at Álvaro’s feet. Time seemed to slow down. He took one touch to control it, and with a defender closing in, he unleashed a powerful, curling shot with his left foot. It soared, a perfect arc, kissing the underside of the crossbar and exploding into the back of the net.

The stadium absolutely erupted. The roar was deafening, primal. Álvaro turned, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated joy and shock, and was immediately mobbed by his teammates.

Y/N was on her feet, screaming, tears streaming down her face uncontrollably. She was jumping up and down, hugging the strangers next to her. It was the goal of his career. Against Barça. A winning goal.

As the team celebrated, Álvaro broke free from the pack. He ran towards the sideline, his eyes frantically scanning the crowd. He found her. He always found her. He pointed directly at her, his expression fierce and full of meaning, before being swallowed by his celebrating teammates again.

The final whistle blew. Chaos. Joy. Pandemonium.

Y/N’s phone was blowing up, but she couldn’t look away from the pitch. He was being swarmed for post-match interviews. She saw him, still breathless, covered in sweat and grass, being mic’d up by a reporter from the sports network.

She turned up the volume on the stadium screen.

The reporter was beaming. “Álvaro Carreras! A stunning goal to win El Clásico! Take us through it!”

Álvaro, still panting, grinned. “I just hit it! I saw the space and I just thought… hit it. Thankfully, it went in!”

“The fans are going crazy! The team is ecstatic! Who do you want to dedicate this incredible goal to?”

Álvaro looked directly into the camera. The smile on his face softened into something more private, more profound. The noise of the celebrating stadium seemed to fade for him.

“There’s… there’s one person,” he said, his voice clear and steady through the microphone. “She told me when I was ten years old that I was the best player on a dusty pitch in Mostoles. She’s believed in me every single day since. She’s my best friend. And… I think… I’m hoping… she might be more than that.”

The reporter’s eyes went wide. The crowd near the interview erupted in screams. “Y/N! Are you talking about Y/N?”

Álvaro just smiled, a slow, sure, beautiful smile. He didn’t break eye contact with the camera. With her. “She knows who she is. And I really, really need to go talk to her right now.”

He pulled off the microphone, handed it to the stunned reporter, and started jogging, then full-on sprinting, off the pitch and towards the tunnel!

Y/N stood frozen in her seat, the world spinning around her. He’d done it. He’d said it. To millions of people. There was no taking it back. No more denials. No more dancing.

Her phone vibrated incessantly. It was him.

Álvaro: don’t move. stay right there. please.

She couldn’t have moved if she tried. She was rooted to the spot, her heart hammering against her ribs, the echoes of his interview declaration ringing in her ears.

It felt like both a second and a lifetime before she saw him emerge from the player’s tunnel. He was still in his full kit, grass-stained and glorious, weaving through the departing crowd. People were calling his name, reaching out to touch him, but he had a singular focus. Her.

He took the steps to her row two at a time, barely out of breath. He stopped in front of her, his chest heaving, his eyes searching hers. The stands were almost empty now, just the echoes of the victory left behind.

“Y/N,” he breathed.

“You… you just…” she stammered, her voice trembling. “You said that. On live television.”

“I’m tired of almosts,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “I’m tired of interruptions and denials and five-minute rules that aren’t rules. I’m tired of waiting.” He took a step closer, closing the final distance between them. “I meant it. Every word. You are my best friend. You are the most important person in my life. And I am so deeply, completely, and utterly in love with you. I have been since I was probably twelve years old.”

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks now. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the damp fabric of his jersey, right over his racing heart.

“The five-minute rule isn’t real,” she whispered, repeating her words from weeks ago.

“I know,” he said, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear. “It’s because I can’t wait. I never could. I see you, and I have to let you know I’m here. That I see you. That I’ve always seen you.”

She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. “I love you too, Alvi,” she said, her voice finally steady, sure. “It’s always been you.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t a hesitant or shy kiss. It was seventeen years in the making. It was a confession, a promise, a victory celebration all in one. It was warm and sure and tasted like sweat and triumph and the faintest hint of his stupidly expensive cologne. Her hands came up to tangle in his sweaty hair, pulling him closer, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground as he deepened the kiss.

The world, the cameras that were undoubtedly still watching from somewhere, the millions of tweets that were probably already exploding, it all faded away. There was only him. Only them. Finally.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and foreheads resting together, he was smiling that same boyish grin from the dusty pitch.

“Was that okay?” he asked, his voice husky.

She laughed, a joyful, tearful sound. “It was a solid 10/10. Impeccable form.”

He laughed with her, the sound echoing in the empty stadium. “Good. Because I’ve been practicing that in my head for about a decade.”

He laced his fingers with hers, holding their joined hands between them. “So… what now?”

She looked at their hands, then back at his beautiful, hopeful face. “Now,” she said, smiling. “I believe you owe me a properly washed jersey. And I think we have about seventeen years of catching up to do.”

“I think I can manage that,” he said, leaning in to kiss her again, slower this time, sealing the promise they’d made a lifetime ago under a much smaller sun.