“Strikers on top!”
We throw back our shots together, the tequila burning all the way down. The bass vibrates under our feet, the air thick with laughter, perfume, and rhythm.
The Strikers pulled off the unthinkable tonight, an edge-of-your-seat, ninety-two-minute victory against Miami that had the entire stadium roaring. Fans from both sides stood the wholegame, waving flags, singing, losing their voices for every play. It was everything football should be: raw, unpredictable, alive.
After the final whistle came the press conference. Rogue and Messi side by side, announcing their plans to open new youth academies—Rogue in Great Lakes, Messi in Miami. Rogue spoke about naming his after his mother, his voice steady but full of emotion. Watching him speak like that—gentle, sincere, and proud—was enough to make my heart ache in the best way.
With the footage captured, edited, and sent his way, the workday was officially over. The girls had decided we needed to dance, and honestly, they were right.
I’d dressed with a little extra confidence tonight—black jeans that hugged tight, a silver halter top that shimmered under the light, nearly backless, a little daring. My hair loose, curled, pinned to the side, silver sandals catching every flicker of neon.
I’d second-guessed myself in the mirror until Bri and Anna, already half drunk and mixing drinks in their tiny club dresses, spotted me.
“I feel like my fupa’s on full display,” I groaned.
“That,” Bri declared without missing a beat, “is the hottest fupa I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Now, hours later, the club feels like its own universe. Everyone’s bodies move to the beat, drinks in hand, joy spilling from every corner. I’ve found my rhythm with June and her sisters, laughing like we’ve known each other all of our lives.
We discover quickly that April’s the oldest, May, Bri, and I are the same age, and June and Anna are the youngest—and that revelation alone earns a round of cheers and tequila.
The tempo jumps, lights flash, and the DJ shouts, “¡Candelaaa! ¡Que se prenda esta pista, Great Lakes!”(Fire! Let’s light up this dance floor, Great Lakes!)
I’m standing beside April when she tells me about her love story.
“So you just got in a car with a stranger,” I say, incredulous, “and that’s how it started?”
“Yeah,” she laughs, eyes bright. “The connection was instant. I think I felt it the moment I looked at him.”
“And now you’re moving to California?”
“I am. I accepted a job offer there. Been in LA for a few weeks already, just came home to pack up the rest of my stuff.”
“What’s his name?”
“Max.” Her smile turns soft as she pulls out her phone, showing me her lock screen—a photo of them on horseback, sunlight and happiness, caught mid-laugh.
“Girl,” I gasp, “you hit the jackpot. He’ssohot.”
“I know!” she says, laughing. “I’m the luckiest bitch alive.”
We’re still laughing when an arm drapes across my shoulders. I turn, startled, and there’s Thiago, grinning like a kid who’s just found trouble.
“Ca-ta-li-na,” he sings, dragging out each syllable. “What are the hottest girls in Great Lakes doing in a place like this?”
Before I can answer, Luca Moretti, Noah James, and Bruno Silva appear behind him, looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“What areyoudoing here?” I ask, wide-eyed.
“Celebrating!” Luca says, raising his beer like a trophy.
Thiago shrugs, smiling. “Actually,Icame to see your sister.”
Anna turns pink, a bashful smile tugging at her lips.
Noah smirks. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Catalina?”
“Right,” I say, gesturing around. “Thiago, Luca, Noah, Bruno—you know June. These are her sisters, April and May.”
