James @jamesiesposts - Tumblr Blog

✩ Out of Left Field || Fernando Alonso ✩

⋆ Pairing

↳ footballer!Fernando Alonso x male!journalist!reader

⋆ Summary

↳ Being an intern for one of the most well-known publications in Spain has proven to be hard, but after you are sent to a game no one else wants to attend, and meet one of your favourite footballers, you start standing up for yourself. What you don't expect when doing so is that your favourite footballer may just have a little crush on you

⋆ Word Count

↳ 8.4K

⋆ Authors Note:

↳ I don't even know what to say genuinely... Although in South Africa Pride month isn't celebrated till October, the rest of the world celebrates it today. So, to say Happy Pride to my Non-South African readers, enjoy this mlm fernando fic, that I definitely didn't black out writing. No one ask about the 8.4k word count, I don't know man. Also it hurts to call it football when I grew up calling it soccer but I was bullied into saying otherwise by @jamesiesposts

If there was one thing you had learned during your internship, it was that nobody respected an intern. Not really. They smiled at you. They asked you to fetch coffee. They handed you equipment and told you to "shadow" the actual journalists.

But respect?

That was reserved for people with experience, people with names, people who didn't have "Master's Student" written at the top of every work application.

Which was exactly how you had ended up covering Real Oviedo versus Mirandés. Not because you were the best person for the job. Because nobody else wanted it.

"Seriously?" one of the senior reporters had said, walking past your desk to your bosses office. "Are you really going to send me all the way out there for that?"

Your boss had shrugged. "We need coverage."

"Are you going?" the reporter had asked and your boss gave him a look that said he was above it.

"God, no. It’s one of the most boring matches every year, nothing good comes from it. The only thing that is remotely interesting is it being Alonso’s territory. The stadium he grew up in and all that. We’ve done five different stories based on that already. Not like there’ll be anything new. " He had told the journalist with that uninterested tone, the one that he used whenever you tried to tell him any ideas you had for articles.

“I don’t wanna go for those exact reasons, Kender. What do I gotta do to get out of this?” He’d asked, sitting down in the chair across from Jose Kender, your boss.

You hadn’t meant to be listening to their conversation, but your ears had perked up at the mention of Fernando Alonso, your favourite footballer. The one that had been making waves in the world of football the past five years after joining, professionally, Real Oviedo. The player who was rumored to be making moves next year to a much bigger team. Names like Real Madrid CF, FC Barcelona, and Atlético de Madrid, some of the biggest clubs in Spanish football.

As the journalist finished talking, the leg of the chair you’d been leaning back on, in order to hear the conversation, had snapped and you’d gone tumbling to the floor. You cursed before standing up, and looking back at the two men staring at you.

Your boss calls you by your surname, and you start apologizing, before he cuts you off. “Get in here”. When you’d looked up at him again you saw that look in his eye and knew exactly what was coming. "The kid can do it. He's always trying to convince me to give him an article, anyways"

And just like that. The assignment had been dropped into your lap because everyone else had considered it beneath them. However, you’d known otherwise, you’d wanted to go to the match because this year felt different. Especially because of Fernando, the fact this could be the last match he played on home turf with his first professional team.

You already knew what you wanted to do the article on, it’s something you’d tried elevator pitching to your boss the other day, and he’d answered a phone call a minute in. You knew something that they didn’t care to understand. The supporters cared. The city cared. Football wasn't just football there. It was a community with history, and an identity connected to it. They were a village with pride, a pride accelerated by their star player.

The fact that your colleagues couldn't see that said more about them than it did about the match.

Yet, being right didn't stop you from being nervous. Especially as you adjusted the press pass hanging around your neck as you entered the stadium. Your camera bag dug into your shoulder with your notebook tucked beneath your arm.

The stands were already beginning to fill despite kickoff still being over an hour away. Blue scarves. Blue jerseys. Blue flags. Everywhere. You couldn't help smiling. This was exactly why you'd gone into journalism. Not for the celebrity interviews or the television appearances, but for stories.

And there was a story here. You just had to find it. A supporter walking past laughed, and you’d smiled too, before taking a sip of the coffee you’d made sure to grab before the stands got full, and headed toward the media area.

The match itself was incredible. Fast. Physical. Loud. The kind of game that reminded you why people fell in love with football in the first place. By the final whistle your notebook was overflowing with observations.The same as your SD card in the camera you’d used to take pictures of everything. The atmosphere. The goals. The reactions. The supporters singing themselves hoarse.

But then came the hard part. The media zone. You hated the media zone. The two small rooms, packed with too many journalists, photographers, all screaming and shouting at the players as they filtered through. The second players started filtering through, every journalist in the room transformed into a predator.

Questions flew. Bodies shifted and pressed together. Everyone fought for attention. And everyone seemed significantly better at it than you. Three separate times you tried asking a question. Three separate times somebody talked over you. One journalist physically stepped in front of you without so much as an apology.

You ended up squeezed against a barrier, notebook in hand, wondering if journalism school had neglected to teach an entire module on professional elbowing. A burst of movement near the entrance drew your attention. And again the crowd immediately shifted.

Journalists straightened. Microphones lifted. Fernando had been the last to arrive. You recognized him instantly. Not just because he was one of Oviedo's biggest players. But because everyone recognized Fernando.

Supporters adored him. Sponsors loved him. Reporters practically fought over opportunities to speak to him. Which explained why half the room suddenly surged forward. You sighed.

There was no chance of getting a quote from him, for the story you wanted. Yet still, you listened, hoping maybe something he responded with would somehow fit your article. Fernando moved through question after question with practiced ease.

Tactics. Performance. The season. Future fixtures. The usual things. Eventually the crowd began to thin. Some journalists already moving on to file their reports. Fernando started toward the exit.

And before your brain could stop you, "Fernando!" The word escaped. Loud enough to make several reporters turn, including Fernando himself. Your stomach immediately dropped. Fernando stopped, and looked directly at you.

Waiting.

You swallowed, and raised your recorder, "Just one question."

The room fell a little quieter. Not silent, but quieter. A few people looked annoyed, one reporter outright rolled his eyes, because all the questions had been asked, what else could possibly be said.

Yet, Fernando ignored them, and gave you our chance to speak. "Go ahead."

You took a breath. Then asked the question you'd been thinking about since kickoff. "What would a promotion to La Liga mean for the people of Oviedo?"

For the first time all evening, Fernando looked genuinely surprised. Not shocked, just caught off guard. He’d clearly expected something else. Perhaps, a question about football, but instead you were asking about the city. The supporters. The people who filled the stands every week.

Something warm flickered across his expression. Then he smiled, not the polished media smile he'd been giving reporters all evening. A real one. The kind that reached his eyes. "Everything," he said simply.

The room grew quieter, and you sucked in a breath, instinct taking over. "When people look at football from the outside, they see ninety minutes." His gaze drifted briefly toward the stadium beyond the walls. "But that's never what it's really been." You nodded furiously as he spoke. "For some families this club has been passed down for generations. Grandparents bring their children. Those children then bring their children."

A few reporters nearby had stopped packing up, and stood listening. "If a promotion happens, people will celebrate, obviously, but it goes beyond that."

He paused. Choosing his words carefully. "The city feels it." Your mind barely kept up. "The businesses around the stadium feel it. The supporters feel it. The people who spend all week working and save money just to come here every weekend feel it."

You looked up briefly. Fernando wasn't looking at the journalists anymore. He was looking through the media door toward the pitch. Like he could still see the supporters out there. "The club belongs to them before it belongs to anyone else."

The answer hung in the air for a moment. Long enough that nobody immediately spoke. Then someone else jumped in with a question, the spell between you two now broken. Fernando answered a few more. Before eventually the club's media officer began ushering him toward the exit.

You glanced at your notes, then to the recorder you’d just pressed paused on and sighed contently. It had taken you a few seconds more to recalibrate yourself before you’d found your footing again and walked away. You had found your way to the pitch, sitting down on one of the game benches as all the cleaning staff started filtering out from the rafters.

You knew you wouldn’t be allowed to stay much longer but you wanted to start your article in the place that gave it its meaning. You pulled your laptop out and started furiously typing away, cursor moving a million miles a minute as the words poured out of you, in the way they always did when you were passionate about the topic.

It was as you got to the point of Fernando’s quote that a shadow appeared beside you. "Did you get everything?"

You looked up, and if an angel, Fernando stared down at you with curiosity written all over his face.

For a second your brain forgot how to function. "Oh." Very eloquent, you told yourself. Excellent journalism.

Fernando's mouth twitched. "That's not what I asked."

You cleared your throat. "Yeah." You held up your laptop. "I think so."

"You think so?" He asked, sitting down beside you. He was still in his blue team kit.

"I haven’t been able to stop typing yet so, yea, I think so."

"Good answer."

You laughed. Fernando glanced toward your laptop screen. "Are you writing the match report?"

“Not really” You say slightly shy at showing too much care for the article you’re writing.

"What’s the article about then?"

"Supporter reactions."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "Interesting."

"You sound surprised." You say slightly surprised yourself at his reaction.

"Most people only care about the football." he says with a half smile.

You shrug, "Football is the supporters." The response left your mouth automatically, without thought, without calculation.

Fernando stared at you for a second. Something unreadable passed across his face, then he nodded once. "Exactly." Heat crawled up your neck. “Off the record, it’s probably why I’ve stayed with the team so long. I grew up apart of their club, supporter and player.” You suddenly became very interested in putting your laptop away. "Which publication are you with?" He asks, suddenly trying to change the subject.

You told him, and recognition flashed across his face. "Ah, not normally a fan of you guys. Especially the editor who's always shouting at his staff?"

You barked out a laugh, Fernando grinned. "Internship?"

You sighed dramatically. "Is it really that obvious?"

"Master's student?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Now you're just profiling me."

"Am I wrong?"

"...no."

"I thought so."

You shook your head. "I don't know whether to be impressed or offended."

"I'm choosing impressed." He’d said and you’d dropped your head with a smile.

For a moment neither of you spoke. The empty stadium stretching around you. The distant hum of staff packing things away.Then Fernando turned slightly so he could see you. You were close enough to talk, but far enough that it didn't feel strange.

"So." Fernando leaned back against the bench slightly. "Are you covering the charity match next month?"

You laughed. "My publication is."

"But not you." The certainty in his voice made you blink.

"No."

"Why not?"

You shrugged. "Because apparently that's for the real journalists." The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them. Not because they weren't true, but because saying them aloud sounded ridiculous.

Fernando frowned. "What does that mean?"

"The experienced ones."

"You mean older."

"Usually."

Silence fell between you before Fernando scoffed, "That's stupid."

The bluntness caught you off guard. You laughed. "I'll be sure to pass that feedback along."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

Fernando looked genuinely annoyed by the concept. Which was oddly endearing. "You've got to start somewhere."

"Tell my editor that."

"Maybe I will."

You snorted. "Please don't."

"I'm considering it."

"You absolutely should not."

His grin returned. "I'll think about it."

You shook your head. A smile pulling at your lips despite yourself, then Fernando glanced out toward the pitch.

"That's a shame." Fernando said and you looked over.

"What is?"

His gaze shifted back to you. "I would've liked to read your coverage, more than just what you write about tonight."

For a second you forgot how to respond, because nobody had ever said that before. Not a professor. Not an editor. Not another journalist. Not even your family and certainly not a professional footballer.

The words settled somewhere deep in your chest. Uncomfortable only because they felt nice. Dangerously nice.You looked away first.

"Well." Your voice came out softer than intended. "Unless they suddenly start believing in me, I don't think that'll happen."

Fernando was quiet. Thoughtful. Studying you. Then he nodded once. As though filing the information away. "Never know."

You laughed. "That sounds suspicious."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It wasn't meant to."

You didn't believe him for a second, and looked back to your now auto turned off screen. "You don't have to stay, you know." You glanced up from your laptop and closed it, deciding to slip it back into its bag. When you look up again, Fernando’s watching you.

"What?"

"The stadium." He gestured around at it. The floodlights that painted everything silver. You looked out across the pitch. The grass looked almost unreal. Perfect.

"I like it." Fernando said, looking back at you.

"The empty stadium?" You asked

"The quiet." A small smile tugged at your lips.

"You don't really get that during a match."

"No." His voice softened. "You don't."

For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Fernando suddenly stood. You frowned.

"What are you doing?"

"Come on." He started walking to the bag he had dropped at the edge of the bench you hadn’t even noticed till now.

You blinked."Come on where?"

"The field." He said pulling out a football.

"What?"

"The field." He repeated.

"We can't just go onto the pitch."

Fernando stopped halfway down the field and looked back at you.

"You know I'm a player, right?"

"...unfortunately."

His grin widened. "Then come on."

You stared at him, then at the field, then back at him. "No."

"No?"

"No."

Fernando looked offended. Genuinely offended. "You don't want to play against me?"

"I don't want to embarrass myself."

"By standing on grass?"

"By whatever weird thing you're planning."

"I'm not planning anything."

That was a lie, you could tell immediately. Fernando looked exactly like somebody planning something, then again, maybe that was just him.

"You are absolutely planning something."

He shrugged. "Maybe."

"There it is."

"Come on."

You remained firmly seated. Fernando sighed dramatically. Then folded his arms.

"Coward."

You narrowed your eyes. "Oh, fuck off."

"That's not a denial."

"I'm not a coward."

"Prove it."

You stared at him. Fernando stared back. Waiting. The worst part? He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"Oh, I hate you."

"You don't."

You stood. Fernando's grin became insufferable. "See?"

"I still hate you."

"Sure."

By the time you reached the middle of the field, Fernando bounced the ball once against his foot, then tossed it toward you.

You caught it with your foot and automatically bounced it from foot to foot. Only to immediately regret it, because now there was no pretending you didn't know how to play. No reason for excuses.

Fernando noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyebrows shot upward. "Oh?"

You groaned.

"You play." He asked gleefully.

"I played." You say through gritted teeth.

Fernando pointed at the ball. "That's not beginner control."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

You rolled your eyes. "You're a professional footballer."

"And?"

"And you're going to destroy me."

Fernando's grin turned dangerous. "You think very highly of me."

"I think exactly highly enough of you."

"One-on-one."

"No."

"One-on-one."

"Absolutely not."

"Scared?"

You sighed, long and suffering, kicking the ball to your chest before dropping it to the ground and kicking it towards him, "Fine."

Fernando immediately looked delighted. Which should have concerned you more than it did. The first few minutes were exactly what you'd expected. Fernando teasing. Fernando showing off. Fernando somehow manages to remain annoyingly attractive while doing both.

Then the ball landed at your feet, and instinct took over. You feinted left. Cut right.

Fernando blinked. The opening appeared. You took it. The ball rolled through his legs, barely giving him time to react, before you were collecting it again behind him.

"Oi!" You burst out laughing. Fernando whipped around, "Did you just nutmeg me?"

"Pfft." Your grin widened. "No."

His eyes narrowed. "You absolutely did."

"No evidence."

"There's literally evidence."

"No witnesses."

"We're the witnesses."

You laughed harder. Fernando stared, then started laughing too. And suddenly it wasn't Fernando the footballer. It was just Fernando. A guy playing football under floodlights. A guy who looked happiest with grass stains on his socks and a ball at his feet. The game continued. And to your horror, you found yourself enjoying it. Really enjoying it.

You chased every loose ball. Argued every call. Demanded rematches. Twice you nearly scored. Once Fernando had to actually work to stop you.

By the end both of you were breathing heavily. Your lungs burned, and your legs ached.

You collapsed onto the grass. Staring up at the night sky. A few seconds later Fernando dropped down beside you. Close enough that your shoulders almost touched. "You know." His breathing was still uneven. "I wasn't expecting that."

You laughed. "What?"

"You."

You turned your head, Fernando was looking at you. Not teasing or smiling this time. Just looking, studying your face.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're good."

You snorted. "I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm really not."

"You nearly scored."

"Nearly."

"You nutmegged me."

"Allegedly."

Fernando barked out a laugh, then the amusement faded. Replaced by something more thoughtful. "Can I ask you something?"

You hesitated. "Depends."

"Why don't you fight for yourself?"

The question hit so suddenly you almost missed it. "What?"

Fernando sat up slightly. Resting his forearms on his knees. "Why don't you fight for yourself?"

You frowned. "I do."

"No."

He shook his head. "You don't."

Your stomach tightened. "Fernando-"

"I'm serious." He gestured toward the pitch. "Look at tonight."

"What about it?"

"You spent twenty minutes trying to embarrass me."

A laugh escaped you. "I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I nearly scored."

"Exactly."

Fernando pointed at you, the movement is sharp. Certain. "You went after every ball." His voice softened. "You didn't hesitate."

You looked away, suddenly very interested in the grass.

"You didn't second-guess yourself." Silence. "You just played."

The words settled heavily between you, because you knew where this was going, and you hated that he was right. Fernando looked out toward the empty stands. Then back at you.

"You should fight for yourself with the same hunger you just played with."

Your throat tightened. "You think it's that simple?"

"No." The answer came immediately. "No, I think it's hard." His expression softened.

"But I also think you've already got it in you."

You didn't know what to say to that. Nobody had ever looked at you the way Fernando was looking at you now. Like he genuinely believed what he was saying. Like he wasn't just being kind. Like he knew.

After a moment Fernando stood, offering you a hand.

You stared at it, then took it. His grip was warm, strong, steady.

"Come on, journalist."

You let him pull you to your feet. "What now?"

Fernando smiled. The kind of smile that made your stomach do unfortunate things. "Now you go convince your editor he's an idiot." And for the first time since starting your internship, that almost sounded possible.

The charity match assignment list went up on a Tuesday. You knew exactly where to find it. You also knew exactly what you were going to see. Which somehow didn't stop the disappointment. Three names. None of them yours. You stared at the notice board for a few seconds longer than necessary. Maybe there'd been a mistake. Maybe there was a second page.Maybe- No. Just three names. One senior reporter, your boss, and a photographer.

You should have expected it. You did expect it, but it still sucked. "Looking for your name?" You glanced over, one of the senior journalists was collecting his equipment.

You forced a smile. "Something like that."

He gave the list a quick glance. "Big assignment."

You hummed. "Yeah."

"Maybe next year.” He wasn't being cruel, like you would have expected. He genuinely thought he was being encouraging. And that somehow made it worse. You nodded politely and walked away before he could say anything else.

By the time you reached your desk, your mood had cratered. The logical part of your brain immediately started making excuses. It made sense. You were still technically an intern, still studying. The senior journalists had more experience. More contacts. More credibility.

It wasn't personal. It was practical. Reasonable. Expected.

Even if your boss had been impressed by your article and it was currently doing better than any of the articles currently being pushed out about the game.

You opened your laptop. Pulled up a draft article, stared at it, and closed it again. For some reason all you could hear was Fernando's voice. "You should fight for yourself with the same hunger you just played with."

You groaned. "No." The memory remained. Persistent. Annoying. "Go convince your editor he's an idiot."

You dropped your head onto your desk. "This is your fault." The footballer, unfortunately, was not present to defend himself. A minute passed, then another. You looked into his office where he sat looking at photo options for the next issues front page.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." You stood, before you could talk yourself out of it.

He looked up when you knocked on his office door. "Something on fire?"

"Can I come to the charity match?"

The words came out faster than intended. Direct. No easing into it.

Your boss blinked. Then leaned back in his chair. "No."

You'd expected that. Still. The rejection stung. "Why?"

His eyebrows rose. Normally, you would accept the answer, nod and leave. Apparently today was different. "Because we've already assigned people."

"I can help, and I know the company always gets four press badges."

"We don't need help."

"I won't get in the way."

"You'll absolutely get in the way."

You narrowed your eyes, and folded your arms.

"Give me one reason."

He stared. "One reason?"

"One reason I shouldn't go."

Your boss laughed, actually laughed. "Since when do you argue?"

"Since I feel it’s deserved. My article is one of the best on the site at the moment and has brought significant good reactions to the publishing house, even after you thought it was a lost cause. I have proved my worth, let me show you that I can continue."

The answer surprised both of you. His expression shifted slightly. Studying you. Assessing. You pressed forward before your courage disappeared.

“I've covered every assignment you've given me. I've never missed a deadline. I've written extra pieces when nobody asked. You keep saying I need experience. That is why you won’t give me big pieces, yet you do not give me the chance to gain those experiences. Instead I’m a glorified assistant who gets told no at any chance to grow"

Your editor nodded slowly, leaving you in silence as your rant finished. Your pulse hammered in your ears. You hated this. Hated asking. Hated putting yourself out there. Hated the possibility of hearing no. Again. Like you always did

Your editor sighed, like you were personally inconveniencing him. Which, to be fair, you probably were. "You really want this."

It wasn't a question. You nodded. "Yes."

"Why?"

Because Fernando would be there. The thought flashed through your head instantly. You immediately buried it. That was not the answer. Not even close. "Because it's a good story for a good cause."

Your editor watched you carefully. "That's a dangerous answer."

You frowned. "Why?"

"Because after what you showed, putting humanity at the front of your article instead of the game like every sheep out there last week. I fear you could be what we need for this match."

A pause, then another sigh as he rubbed at his jaw, thinking. Which was infinitely worse than being told no. At least no was quick.

"You carry the same equipment you did last week. You work closely with our team but not a part of them. You fight for your own quotes, ask your own questions. I want your article to be the first thing I see in my email on Monday morning."

Your brain short-circuited. "What?"

"You are going" You stared mouth agape, he stared back. "Is that a yes?"

You nodded as the realization hit all at once. You were going, actually going, not officially a part of their project but by yourself, a one man team. But you were going. You couldn't stop the grin, and your editor immediately regretted his decision. "Thank you."

Your editor pointed toward the door. "Get out."

"Gladly."

The charity match felt nothing like a normal football match. For one thing, nobody seemed particularly interested in acting professionally. The stadium had sold out weeks ago. Every ticket purchased went directly toward local children's hospitals and community sports programs, which meant supporters had arrived in force.

Scarves waved from every section. Children leaned over railings clutching shirts and markers. Entire families packed the stands. The atmosphere felt lighter than any football match you'd ever attended. More festivals than fixtures. More celebration than competition. And somehow that made it louder. You stood near the touchline balancing the same equipment you’d had weeks earlier. A bag with your laptop, a camera, a recorder, your notebook, two pens and your phone.

You tried figuring out the angle of your next article but it was hard because standing thirty feet away was a collection of footballers that looked less like a squad and more like somebody's Football Manager save file.

Current stars. Retired legends. Players from different leagues. Different countries. Different generations. People who should never realistically be standing beside each other. Yet somehow they were. One goalkeeper was taking selfies with supporters. A retired striker was trying to convince a defender he could still outrun him. Two midfielders were arguing over who had scored the better goal ten years ago. Nobody appeared interested in behaving themselves.

The crowd loved every second of it. A cheer erupted from one side of the pitch. You looked up, as Fernando emerged from the tunnel. Immediately greeted by three different players shouting insults at him. He responded by blowing them a kiss. The abuse only intensified. You laughed despite yourself.

"Careful." Your boss appeared beside you. "If anyone notices you're having fun, we'll have to fire you."

You nearly dropped the camera. "Jesus Christ."

"Try looking less excited."

Your eyes drifted back toward the players. One of the most recognizable footballers in Europe was currently attempting to nutmeg a retired goalkeeper during warmups.

"You brought me to a football fever dream."

Your boss sighed. "Yeah." Even he looked impressed.

The pre-match introductions somehow made everything worse. Or better. Depending on perspective. Each player was announced individually. Every name earning its own reaction. Some cheers. Some laughter. Some playful boos from rival supporters. The loudest response came whenever former teammates appeared together. The crowd immediately demanded old celebrations be recreated. Most of them happily obliged.

By kickoff the entire stadium buzzed with energy. Nobody cared who won. That was obvious from the first whistle. The football itself was surprisingly good, not serious, but good. Players attempted ridiculous passes they would never risk during actual league matches. Defenders wandered forward just because they could. Goalkeepers occasionally joined attacks. At one point a centre-back attempted a bicycle kick. He missed entirely, and somehow still received a standing ovation.

The crowd treated every moment like theatre, because that's exactly what it was. Entertainment. Joy. Football stripped back to its simplest form. You found yourself forgetting to take notes several times. Too busy watching. Too busy listening. The laughter from the pitch. The reactions from the stands. The way rival players became teammates for ninety minutes. The entire event felt like a reminder of why people loved the sport in the first place. Then came Fernando's goal.

And suddenly the atmosphere shifted. Not because the score mattered, but because the crowd adored him. A quick one-two near the edge of the box. A clever run. Then a finish curled perfectly into the far corner. The stadium exploded. Fernando immediately sprinted toward the supporters. Arms spread wide. Grinning like an idiot. Three teammates tackled him before he reached the advertising boards.

The celebration became a pile-up. Nobody seemed interested in stopping it. You found yourself laughing while trying to write down what happened. By the time the match entered its final minutes, the scoreline had become almost irrelevant. Children waved signs. Players swapped shirts. Supporters sang. The entire evening felt warm. Hopeful. Human. And standing there behind the cameras, surrounded by some of football's biggest names, you couldn't help thinking that maybe you had been right to fight for it, because this wasn't just a charity match. This was a story, and stories were exactly why you'd become a journalist in the first place.

By the time the final whistle blew, your feet were killing you. You had spent most of the game running around the stands trying to get the right photos, both on field and off it, And the other half making notes on the game and the players. Which, admittedly, wasn't much different from what you’d done last week, but it felt heavier this time.

The crowd remained loud even after the match ended. Players wandered around the pitch signing shirts, taking photos with fans, handing merch to children in the front rows. Nobody seemed in a hurry to leave. Not the supporters. Not the players. Not even the journalists.

Eventually your boss jerked his head toward the media area, "Come on, you gotta show me what you’re worth." You grabbed your recorder, and flipped to your notes in your book that you’d wanted to ask about. You followed him through the stadium corridors.

The atmosphere backstage was somehow even more chaotic. Players drifted through hallways still laughing about moments from the match. Media officers hurried between rooms. Cameramen adjusted equipment. Reporters prepared questions. It felt less like a football event and more like a controlled disaster.

"Put that down." Your editor pointed at your notebook. “A real journalist, lets intuition guide them”

You obeyed, putting your notebook back in your bag., with a nod. “And if that intuition makes you say something stupid?”

He laughed at that, “Then at least you’ve made an impression, but listen kid. One of the best things about your first article is you didn’t make it quote heavy, you watched. Don’t change that now. Watch.”

He was right of course. You had a handful of quotes, yes, but you’d described everything apart from just the game and it was part of why your article had, even now, been doing the best out of any other article.

You thought that perhaps that was your specialty. To watch, to feel, and articulate that into words. The press room slowly filled, rows of chairs. Camera setups. Microphones. Journalists arranging themselves according to seniority and reputation. You found a place behind the main camera line. Close enough to observe, far enough not to get in anyone's way. Your boss going back to the main journalist.

The first interviews started, a retired defender, then a former goalkeeper. Then one of the event organizers. You listened carefully. Taking notes despite not being told not to. Old habits die hard and all that.

Most interviews blurred together after a while. Questions about the charity. Questions about fundraising. Questions about memorable moments. You were halfway through writing down a quote when movement near the doorway caught your attention.

Fernando.

The room visibly reacted. Reporters straightened. Microphones lifted. A few people immediately shuffled positions. You hated how quickly your own attention snapped toward him. Fernando looked exactly the same as he had on the pitch. Still smiling. Still relaxed. Still somehow making everyone around him seem more comfortable.

The interview began. Questions flowed. Fundraising totals. The atmosphere. The supporters. The event itself. Fernando answered easily, professional, confident. Comfortable in front of cameras. You found yourself writing down several answers despite knowing you probably wouldn't need them.

Across the room your editor noticed, with a smirk, and you immediately looked away. A few minutes later after Fernando had left the room someone entered through a side door. One of the event's media coordinators. She approached your boss directly. Leaning down to whisper something in his ear, at first your editor simply nodded with an enthusiastic smile, before it fell into a frown.

The coordinator said something else, and your boss’s eyebrows shot upward. "What?" You saw him mouth his eyes landing on you. The coordinator repeated herself, yet you couldn't hear any of it. Only see mouths moving and your boss’s face visibly darken. No one else in the room noticed the conversation continuing quietly.

Your editor shook his head, the coordinator persisted. Another exchange, then another pause.

Finally your boss rubbed a hand down his face, the universal gesture of someone being inconvenienced. "Fine." you saw him say with a nod and the coordinator smiled. Your boss looked significantly less pleased, as the coordinator disappeared.

You returned your attention to your notebook. Not your circus, not your monkeys right?

At least that was what you thought until your boss popped up next to you. "Kid.” You looked up and your editor was staring directly at you.

"...yeah?"

"Get your shit together, you have been given the opportunity of a lifetime."

Your stomach dropped “What?"

"Interview." The word hit like a truck. You blinked.

"No."

Your editor frowned, "No?"

"I mean yes."

You stood so quickly your chair nearly toppled over. Earning an annoyed look from a couple other journalists.

"Try that sentence again."

Your mouth opened. Closed. It opened again. "I haven't prepared."

Your boss looked unimpressed, "Considering none of us knew this was happening till seconds ago, no one did. Come, prepare while walking." He said turning and walking out the room.

Your heartbeat immediately doubled. "Walking where?"

"Interview room."

"What do you mean interview room? Why do we need an interview room?"

He stopped halfway down the corridor, "A player has decided to announce a move for next season, and for some reason, he wants you to write about the announcement."

You stared at him in shock, He stared back. Neither of you moved. He turned and continued walking and after your legs finally remembered how to function, you followed. Every horrible possibility immediately entered your brain. A current international player. A club legend. Someone famous. Someone important. Someone whose entire career you should probably know inside and out. You were going to embarrass yourself. You were definitely going to embarrass yourself.

"Who am I interviewing?" You asked and your editor shook his head, without giving you an answer. You looked at your editor, "Can you at least give me a name?"

"No." It was final, yet you didn’t care.

"What?" You pushed.

"You're a journalist, you want experience, no learning experience quite like going in blind. "

You hated him so much. The hallway suddenly felt too warm. Your palms were sweating, and your recorder felt slippery as you pulled it out of your bag. This was a disaster. A complete disaster. The media coordinator was standing outside a door, and you took a breath before she took a deep breath and opened it, with a gesture inside.

"Good luck." She told you, and that was somehow more terrifying.

You stepped through, heart hammering, already rehearsing apologies. Then froze because sitting casually in a chair on the opposite side of the room was Fernando.

One ankle resting over the opposite knee. A bottle of water in one hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

The second your eyes met, he grinned, wide, unapologetic

"Oh." The word escaped before you could stop it.

Fernando laughed, the sound warm and familiar, and suddenly all the panic evaporated. Not completely, but enough to not make a fool of yourself. You’d already done that at his home stadium a couple weeks ago.

"Hello, journalist."

You stared at him, then narrowed your eyes, slowly, slightly suspicious. Fernando's grin only grew. And somehow, despite the nerves still twisting in your stomach, you found yourself smiling. Because for the first time all day, maybe for the first time since starting your internship, you actually felt confident for an interview.

"You look suspicious."

Fernando leaned back in his chair. "You look nervous."

"I am nervous."

"Good."

You blinked. "Good?"

"It means you care about what I’m about to tell you."

You stared at him, then at the recorder in your hand, then back at him.

Fernando looked entirely too relaxed for someone who had apparently reduced your life expectancy by several years. "You realize I nearly had a heart attack walking here."

"You survived."

"Barely."

"Still counts."

A laugh escaped despite yourself and Fernando smiled. There it was again, that strange ability he had to make everything feel easier. The nerves didn't disappear completely, but they settled. Enough for you to think, for you to work.

You sat down opposite him, pulled out your notebook, set your recorder between you. Fernando watched the entire process with visible amusement.

"Very professional."

"I am a professional."

Fernando raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

You groaned, and Fernando laughed. And just like that, the tension disappeared. "Alright."

You clicked on the recorder. The red light blinked, immediately your posture changed. Instinct, training, that journalist in you taking over.

Fernando noticed, you could tell he noticed because his expression shifted too. He became more attentive, more focused. The interview began.

At first he spoke about the match you were currently at, what it meant, not only for the charity but for the children, the communities around the event, before he dropped the one liner that had your heart leaping out your chest.

“You wrote about my home match with so much love and care, you captured how I felt about them, and it’s why I want you to be the first to write about my move.”

And although you had softened and smiled at him, at that you still did your job. Asking a question piggybacking off that, then one question became two. Two became five and five became ten.

Before you realized it, you weren't thinking about being nervous anymore, you were listening, following threads, building on answers, finding stories, exactly the way your professors always told you good interviews should work.

Fernando helped, not obviously, not in a way anyone else would notice, but every time he spotted an interesting angle, he expanded. Every time you stumbled slightly, he gave you room to recover. Every answer opened another door. You found yourself asking better questions because of it. The conversation flowed naturally.

At one point you glanced up from your notes. Fernando was already looking at you, listening just as carefully as you were. Something in your chest tightened, and you quickly looked back down.

Coward, you told yourself.

The interview continued. Questions about football. Questions about community. Questions about supporters. The city. The importance of the angle you would give him in reporting it.

The conversation felt less like an interview and more like the two of you talking, which was dangerous, because good interviews weren't supposed to feel this enjoyable. Eventually you reached the final page of your notebook. Not any place for more than a single question. You hesitated.

Then looked up. You sighed. Then decided to ask anyway. The question that had been sitting in the back of your mind for weeks. "Why did you stop that night?"

Fernando tilted his head. "Which night?"

"After the Oviedo match."

Understanding flashed immediately. "The media room?"

You nodded. "There were dozens of journalists there." His expression softened. "So why me?"

The room suddenly felt quieter, smaller. Fernando looked at you for a long moment, long enough that you almost regretted asking.

"Because you cared." The answer came without hesitation. You blinked, and Fernando shrugged lightly. "You asked about supporters. Asked about the city." He leaned forward slightly. “Not many people care about the stories behind the game, they don’t care that the supporters are what make this sport worth showing up for everytime" His eyes met yours. "But you are the exception."

Heat crawled up your neck, you looked away first. Of course you did, because your stomach did something deeply unhelpful. You hated that. A lot.

The silence stretched. Comfortable. Dangerous. Then a knock interrupted everything. The door opened. One of the media staff poked their head inside. "Fifteen minutes." Fernando nodded.

The door closed again. Reality returning. The interview ended. You glanced down at your notebook, at the pages filled with notes.Then ended the recorder, filled with answers. The evidence sitting right in front of you. You'd done it. You hadn't embarrassed yourself.

You hadn't frozen. You'd actually done it. A ridiculous amount of relief flooded your chest. Fernando noticed immediately. "See?"

You narrowed your eyes. "See what?"

"You survived."

"I hate that you were right."

His grin returned, the familiar one, the same one from laying beside each other on that field. The one that usually meant trouble. "I know."

You stood then trying to remain professional. You were being professional, definitely, absolutely.

Then Fernando spoke again, quieter this time. "You did well."

The words hit harder than they should have. Maybe because your editor had never said them. Maybe because your professors rarely did. But maybe it was actually because coming from Fernando, they felt earned.

You swallowed. "Thanks."

His gaze held yours, steady, certain. "No." A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I mean it." And somehow that felt even worse.

"Well." You cleared your throat. "Thank you for the interview."

Fernando stood too, taller than you remembered, far too close now. "Any time, journalist." He winked. Your pulse immediately betrayed you. Fantastic. You moved toward the door. Desperate for fresh air. Desperate to regain control of your brain. You reached for the handle.

Then paused, turning back. "Fernando?"

"Hm?"

"You didn't have to do that."

His expression softened immediately, because he knew exactly what you meant. The interview, the opportunity, the chance, All of it. "You deserved it."

You laughed quietly. "You barely know me." Fernando held your gaze, and for the first time since you'd met him, there wasn't even a trace of teasing in his expression. "I didn't need to know you for long."

The room suddenly felt very small. "What does that mean?"

Fernando stepped closer, not by much, but just enough to make your breath hitch. "It means they spent five minutes with you and decided what you were worth."

Your breath caught. "And?"

His smile returned, this time small and certain. "I spent five minutes with you and decided they were wrong."

For a moment neither of you moved. The words hung between you heavily, far more dangerous than anything that had been said during the interview.

You stared at Fernando and he stared right back. Completely unbothered. As though he hadn't just casually altered your brain chemistry. Your throat felt suspiciously dry. "That's..." You cleared it. "That's awfully sweet of you."

Fernando's smile widened. "Good."

You frowned. "Good?"

"Yeah." He shoved his hands into his pockets. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I was hoping it would be." Something warm unfurled low in your stomach.

You knew exactly where this was heading. Which was unfortunate. Because your brain seemed to have stopped functioning somewhere around I spent five minutes with you and decided they were wrong. "What are you doing?"

Fernando blinked. "Standing."

"You know what I mean."

"Not really."

"You absolutely do."

A laugh escaped him. The sound bouncing off the walls of the room corridor, the sound of people leaving the main interview room and filling the hallway outside. Staff members moving equipment, Journalists filing stories, everyone busy with their own lives. Completely oblivious to the fact that your own had suddenly become very complicated.

Fernando looked at you for a moment. Then shrugged. "Trying to impress you."

Your mouth fell open slightly, the honesty caught you off guard. "No normal person says that out loud."

"I've never claimed to be normal."

"Clearly."

His grin deepened, You hated how attractive that grin was. You hated it even more because he knew it. "Impress me enough for what?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Fernando's eyebrows lifted, as though he was surprised you'd asked. "Dinner."

Oh.

Your brain immediately blue-screened. Fernando waited. Patient, far too patient. You simply stared, because surely you had misunderstood. There was no way.

"You are asking me out." It wasn't a question.

Fernando tilted his head slightly. "That was what I asked."

You laughed, a short, disbelieving sound, because what else were you supposed to do? This wasn't happening. You were a master's student. An intern. A guy whose biggest achievement this month had been convincing his editor not to leave him behind.

Fernando was...

Fernando.

"You look shocked."

"I am shocked."

"Why?"

You stared at him, actually stared. "Do you want the list alphabetically or chronologically?" That finally earned a genuine laugh, the kind that made his shoulders shake.

God. That should not have been as attractive as it was.

Then another thought struck you, and immediately escaped your mouth, as quick as it had come. "I didn't realize you..." You trailed off. Suddenly aware that there was absolutely no graceful way to finish that sentence.

Fernando saved you from yourself. "Swung that way?"

Heat immediately flooded your face. "I wasn't going to phrase it like that."

"No?"

"No."

"What were you going to say?"

"I don't know."

"You definitely had something."

You groaned. Fernando looked entirely too entertained. "Fine." You folded your arms. "I didn't realize you liked men."

There. Better. Marginally. Fernando's expression softened. The teasing nature fading slightly. "Surprises a few people."

You nodded slowly. That was probably the understatement of the century. There had been rumours. Of course there had. There were always rumours. But rumours and reality weren't the same thing. Fernando seemed to read the thought on your face. "Not exactly public information."

"I gathered."

A beat passed. Then he pointed a finger at you. "Which means."

You narrowed your eyes. "Which means?"

"Just don't go telling your boss."

You laughed, a genuine laugh. The tension finally cracking. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Good."

Silence settled again, but different this time. It was lighter and almost warmer. The kind of silence that felt comfortable. Fernando shifted his weight, watching you, nervous, waiting. Not pushing, just waiting.

Which somehow made everything worse. Because now the decision sat entirely with you. The invitation. The possibility. The terrifying reality that Fernando actually wanted to spend time with you.

Not because of an interview. Not because of work, because he wanted to. You looked down briefly. Then back up.

Fernando's gaze never left yours. Your heart did something deeply irritating. "Although."

Fernando's eyebrows lifted. "Although?"

You smiled despite yourself. "I might have a better idea."

Interest flashed immediately across his face. "Oh?"

"Instead of telling my boss." You took a small step closer, not enough to be obvious.

Fernando noticed, of course he noticed. The corner of his mouth lifted. "Yeah?"

Your pulse hammered in your chest, so fast you could hear it. You could also feel it, every nerve suddenly wide awake. "I could just accept the invitation."

For a second Fernando didn't move. Almost like he wasn't sure he'd heard you correctly. Then his smile appeared. The sort of smile that made it impossible not to smile back. "I was hoping you'd say that." Neither of you looked away, neither of you stepped back, the space between you shrinking naturally. Gradually, like gravity, like something inevitable.

Your heart was trying to escape your chest, Fernando looked briefly at your mouth, then back at your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to change your mind, to stop this, but you didn't, you wouldn’t, and apparently neither did he.

The kiss was soft, unexpectedly soft. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. Just warm, gentle, certain. The kind of kiss that felt less like a beginning and more like an answer. When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling.

Which was embarrassing, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. Fernando rested his forehead briefly against yours. Still smiling. "So."

You laughed breathlessly. "So?"

"Dinner." You rolled your eyes.

"Dinner." His grin widened.

"Good." Then, because apparently he couldn't help himself: "Told you I could impress you."

You groaned immediately. "There he is."

"Who?"

"The most annoying man in Spain." Fernando looked delighted by the accusation, and somehow that only made you like him more.

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