You can write about how, for example, Reader is a Barca Femeni player, and Eric has been interested in her for a long time but is embarrassed to admit it to Reader, and Ferran forces Eric to talk to Reader at a club dinner. Reader is a famous and professional striker, but she is a really nice girl, although she also likes Eric.
Plzzzzz😭🫂💝
making eyes across the room.
masterlist requests word count: 990
a/n: eric request yay genre: fluff. warnings: none.
summary: ferran sets you up with eric.
You spot him before he spots you. Eric is standing near the buffet table with a plate he clearly filled just to avoid talking to people. He pokes at a croquette like it personally offended him. His shoulders sit a little too stiff, his eyes flick over the room like he is scanning for exits instead of teammates.
You would laugh if your stomach was not doing that weird little flip it always does when you see him. It is so stupid. You face world class defenders every week and here you are getting shy about a man who gets stressed by tapas.
The annual Barça dinner is loud in the way only football teams can be. Tables packed together, music a little too lively, laughter bouncing off the high walls of the hall. Everyone is dressed up and pretending they are not checking who has the best outfit. It is fun. It is chaotic. It is also the perfect setting for your brain to remind you that you have a crush on Eric García.
You try to ignore it. You try to just enjoy the night. You grab a drink, greet a few teammates, talk about the season so far, pose for a picture with Alexia who insists on twirling you by the arm. But your eyes keep sliding back to the other side of the room.
Back to him.
He looks good tonight, which annoys you. He looks like he took a deep breath in front of a mirror and decided to be brave about something. You have no idea what. Maybe life in general.
You are still staring when Ferran walks into your line of sight. He follows your gaze, then makes a face like he just caught two teenagers liking each other and wants credit for noticing.
You sigh. “Do not say anything.”
Ferran grins, the most annoying grin a man has ever worn. “Too late. I already thought it.”
You nudge him lightly. “Please behave. For one night.”
“Why would I behave when I can cause problems and help mi hermano at the same time?”
Your brain pauses. “Tu hermano?”
“Eric.” Ferran tilts his head toward him. “You know he likes you, right?”
You choke on air. Literally choke. Ferran slaps your back way too hard to be helpful.
“He what?”
“It is so obvious,” Ferran says. “He sees you and his whole soul leaves his body. Like poof, gone. Empty eyes. No thoughts. Only you.”
Your face burns. “You are lying.”
“I am not. I asked him once if he thought you were pretty and he turned red like a tomato and said he did not want to talk about it.”
You blink fast. That sounds like Eric. Exactly like him, actually.
Ferran steps behind you and gives you a firm push. “Go talk to him.”
“No.” You dig your heels in. “Ferran.”
“My job here is done.” He nudges you again. This time, you stumble a little forward into Eric’s line of sight.
Eric freezes like he has been hit by a spotlight. He looks at you, then at his plate, then back at you, and you can see the exact moment panic starts doing laps inside his brain.
You decide to be kind. You give him a small smile as you approach.
“Hey,” you say, “having fun?”
He swallows like fun is the last thing he was having. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. You?”
“I am good.” You try to say it casually, but your heart is beating too fast. “You look nice tonight.”
His ears go pink immediately. “Thanks. You look amazing. I mean, you always look good, but tonight you look, um… yeah.”
You bite back a smile. “That was surprisingly smooth.”
“It was not,” he mutters.
“It kind of was.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it, then tries again. “Ferran made you come over, right?”
You laugh softly. “He shoveled me over like a cow at a farm.”
Eric winces. “I swear I did not ask him to.”
“I believe you.” You lean slightly on the table. “But I am not unhappy I ended up here.”
His eyes flick up, startled and hopeful.
“I like talking to you,” you add.
“Oh.” He blinks, then clears his throat. “I like talking to you too.”
You both stand there, awkwardly adorable, which would be funny if it was not your life.
A little silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable, just warm. The kind where you feel aware of every inch of space between you.
Eric shifts his weight. “I wanted to talk to you earlier, actually. I just did not know if you would want that.”
“Why would I not?”
He gives a helpless little shrug. “You are you.”
You frown. “What does that mean?”
“You are one of the best strikers in the world,” he murmurs, eyes on his plate, “and you are kind and funny and pretty and way out of my league. So sometimes I do not know what to say.”
You stare at him. You absolutely did not expect that level of honesty from a man who looked like he might pass out just from eye contact.
“Eric.”
He keeps staring at the croquette like it is the only safe object in the room. You reach out and touch his wrist lightly. He looks up immediately.
“I like you too,” you say gently.
His mouth falls open. “You do?”
“Yeah. Kind of a lot.”
He looks like someone just told him he won the lottery but also that the lottery is emotional intimacy.
“Wow. OK. I was not prepared for that.”
You smile. “Is it a bad thing?”
“No. No, it is a great thing. It is the best thing. I am just… processing.”
You shift closer, bumping your shoulder softly against his. “We can process together if you want.”
That earns you the tiniest, sweetest smile. “Yeah. I would like that.”
Behind you, someone whistles. It is absolutely Ferran. You do not need to turn around to know. He shouts something like “Finally,” and you roll your eyes while Eric groans into his hands.
“I am going to fight him,” Eric mumbles.
You laugh. “No, you aren’t.”
“I might.”
“You can’t beat him. He is taller.”
Eric sighs dramatically, but he is smiling now, the tension melting off him like sand falling from fingers.
The dinner goes on. People move around you. Conversations spin like little storms. But Eric stays by your side. When you walk to your table, he walks with you. When you sit, he pulls out your chair. When someone asks him to take a picture, he glances at you first like he wants to be sure you are not leaving.
Late in the night, you both end up outside on the terrace. It is quieter out here. The city lights flicker in the distance and the air tastes more like night than celebration.
Eric leans on the railing. “Can I be honest about something?”
“Please do.”
“I have liked you for months.” His voice is soft. “I just never wanted to bother you.”
“You never bothered me,” you say. “You never could.”
He studies you for a long moment. “Can I be honest about one more thing?”
You nod.
He steps a little closer. “I am probably going to mess this up, because I am not suave like some guys on the team, but I really want to kiss you.”
The confession hits you in the chest. Warm, dizzying, perfect.
You walk up to him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm. “I really want to kiss you too.”
He laughs under his breath, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Is that your official permission?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “It is.”
Eric lifts his hand to your cheek like he is making sure this is real. You lean into his touch. His other hand settles lightly at your waist, hesitant but wanting. You rest your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat.
And then he kisses you.
He kisses you like he has been thinking about it every day. Slow at first, careful, then a little deeper when you tug him closer. He tastes like a hint of wine and a lot of nerves, and all of it feels ridiculously perfect.
When you pull back, he is smiling like a man who has just discovered joy exists.
“Well,” he breathes, “I guess that did solve some things.”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “It really did.”
You stay like that for a while. Talking. Laughing. Looking at each other with that new knowledge between you. The world fades to a hum and the night feels softer than before.
When everyone starts saying their goodbyes, Eric walks you to your car, hands tucked in his pockets, staying close like he is already used to it.
“Can I see you tomorrow?” he asks. “Not in a football way. In a me and you way.”
You grin. “Yeah. I would love that.”
He exhales, relieved and happy. “Good. Vale. Cool. I will text you.”
When you slide into your seat, he leans in through the open door and kisses your cheek, shy and sweet.
You drive away feeling light, warm, and maybe a little giddy.
Turns out Ferran was right.
He really is in love.