Alessia Russo Oneshot

Scars on Hands

The gym was buzzing with the usual sounds of fists hitting punching bags and the rhythmic thudding of feet against the floor. The scent of sweat and determination filled the air. You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand, glancing around as you finished your set of push-ups.

That's when you saw her.

Alessia Russo, the star footballer, stood at the entrance of the gym, her eyes scanning the room. She was a sight to behold: athletic, confident, and with a presence that drew attention. You'd seen her on TV and admired her skills on the field, but seeing her in person was something else entirely.

You stood up, trying not to look too obvious as you watched her walk over to the treadmill. She started her warm-up, her movements fluid and precise. For a moment, you wondered what it would be like to talk to her, to share stories of the sports you both loved.

Lost in thought, you didn't notice her approaching until she was right in front of you.

"Hey," she said, a friendly smile on her face. "You're the boxer, right?"

You nodded, trying to keep your cool. "Yeah, that's me. And you're Alessia Russo, the footballer."

She chuckled. "Guilty as charged. Mind if I join you for a bit? I'm always interested in learning how different athletes train."

"Sure," you replied, gesturing to the free space next to you. "I'd be honoured."

As you both started working through a series of exercises, you found it easy to talk to her. Alessia was down-to-earth and genuinely interested in your training regimen. You swapped stories about your toughest matches and the injuries you'd sustained over the years.

At one point, Alessia noticed the scars on your hands. She reached out, her fingertips tracing the jagged lines with a delicate touch. You stood still, a shiver running down your spine at the unexpected intimacy of the gesture.

"Scars on hands," she murmured, her eyes meeting yours. "Every one of them has a story, right?"

You nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. This one," you pointed to a particularly deep scar on your knuckle, "was from a championship fight last year. I took a bad hit, but I kept going."

Her gaze softened. "It's a reminder of what you've been through. Of your strength."

You looked at her, struck by the understanding in her eyes. "Do you have any scars?"

She held out her arm, revealing a faint scar running along her forearm. "Got this one during a match. A bad tackle. It hurt like hell, but I got up and finished the game."

For a moment, you both stood there, silent but connected by the shared language of resilience and perseverance.

"I guess we both know what it means to fight," you said quietly.

"Yeah," she agreed. "We do."

The rest of the workout passed in a blur of shared smiles and mutual respect. As you both finished and started to pack up, Alessia turned to you.

"Hey, we should do this again sometime. It's good to train with someone who understands the grind."

You grinned. "I'd like that."

As she walked away, you couldn't help but feel a spark of something more than just admiration. Maybe it was the start of a new friendship. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of something deeper.

Either way, you knew one thing for sure: scars on hands were more than just marks of pain. They were symbols of the battles you'd fought and the strength you'd found in each other.