Lass.Really?
“Are we playing games and winning stupid prizes already?” I mutter.
“What?”
“Nothing. Good morning,” I say quickly, looking past him before I start spiraling again.
Before he can respond or death glare me into dust, a voice calls out from behind us. “Hey!”
We both turn.
Charging down the hallway like it’s a runway is Thiago Martínez, Strikers' second-string goalkeeper and certified sunshine in human form. He’s in his gray Strikers jersey, blue shorts, flip-flops, his cleats hanging around his neck, and he is carrying his thermos and mate like he’s about to give a TED Talk on the importance of hydration and vibes.
Tan skin, curly dark-brown hair held back by a sky blue headband, and a smile so big it could melt the turf. Brown eyes, thick lashes, pure joy.
“Hey, Thiago,” I say, already smiling back.
“¡¿Qué hacés, campeona?!” he exclaims, wrapping me in a hug that smells of mint, sunscreen, and yesterday’s aftershave.
“Trying to survive,” I mumble against his shoulder.
Then he turns to Rogue and runs at him like a golden retriever discovering its owner after a long day at work.
Rogue doesn’t move.
“Hey man! I’m Thiago Martínez, your second string. I’ve looked up to you my whole life. Meeting you like this… It’s unreal. I can’t wait to train with you.” His arms are still locked tight around Rogue, his face hovering just inches from his, grinning like he’s meeting his hero. Rogue stiffens, then awkwardly pats Thiago’s back once.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Thiago finally pulls back from the hug. “It’s so nice to meet you, man. Seriously. It’s a dream to work with you. Learn fromyou.” His words spill over themselves like he’s afraid he’ll forget them if he doesn’t say them all at once.
Rogue shifts his weight, clearly not sure what to do with all the praise. “I watched you on tape.”
Both Thiago and I blink in surprise.
“You… watched me?” Thiago echoes, surprise etched all over his face.
Rogue gives a tight nod. “Sub-17. Sub-20. And with Peñarol.”
My eyebrows shoot up. That’s oddly specific. Are you telling me Broody McDeath-Stare actuallydid homeworkaround Thiago’s short career?
“You’re good at what you do,” Rogue continues. “You’ve got potential. You could be greater than great.”
Thiago turns to me, needing a witness in this dream he is living, his mouth open wide. “Did he just say…?”
I sip my chai, unable to keep the grin off my face. Watching Thiago buzz with excitement while Rogue looks like he’d rather be anywhere else is the most thrilling thing I’ve seen all morning.
“Are you going to share the mate, or are you just going to stand there hugging it like it’s your firstborn?” Rogue says deadpan.
Thiago springs into action. “Right! Yeah! Of course.” He preps the mate like he’s been training his whole life for this moment.
“You drink mate?” I ask, arching a brow.
Rogue shrugs, eyes following Thiago’s practiced movements. “Griezmann got me into it.”
Ah, right. The reminder slaps me in the face like a cold wave. He comes from Europe. He’s played with legends. Of course he’s drank mate with Griezmann.
Cat, you are not supposed to like this man.
