𝐂𝐇𝐋𝐎𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓 the embodiment of sunshine, always with a bright smile and an easy laugh. She was the one everyone turned to, the friend who never faltered, always radiating positivity. But behind that cheerful exterior, how much darkne...
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As he sprinted across the field, the world seemed to slow down around him, every movement amplified, each step digging into the grass with power and grace. My heart raced in time with his, beating wildly against my chest as I watched him move—fluid, like the game had been crafted for him alone. The number six on his jersey stretched and flexed with his movements, the same jersey I was wearing now, draped loosely over me.
There was something almost hypnotic about the way he played. He was so completely in his element, so focused, as if nothing else existed beyond that field. And I couldn't look away. Every time he darted around a defender, every sharp turn, every perfectly timed pass felt like a symphony of skill and athleticism. He was untouchable, like a god.
But then, before I could even process what was happening, I saw it. One of the opposing players broke free and charged toward him with brutal force, tackling him to the ground. The impact was fierce, a tangle of limbs and dust that left him sprawled on the grass.
The stadium seemed to hold its breath, and I found myself frozen, my fingers tightening around the fabric of his jersey that hung over me like some kind of shield. All the sounds around me faded, drowned out by the thundering pulse in my ears. My mind had narrowed down to a single focus—him.
I watched, barely breathing, as he lay on the ground for a moment, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. He looked dazed, his eyes flickering as he tried to shake off the impact. He pushed himself up, his gloved hand pressing into the earth as he regained his footing. And then he did something that made my breath catch entirely.
He lifted the edge of his blue jersey, using it to wipe at a thin streak of blood that traced down from his forehead. The sight of it—the raw, rugged way he brushed it off without hesitation, like he was untouchable—was somehow both unnerving and mesmerizing. The fabric lifted just enough to reveal the hard line of his abs, glistening with sweat and dirt, his muscles tense and defined under the bright stadium lights.
For a moment, it was as if he knew I was watching him, and his gaze landed on me. I felt my body freeze, the heat of his stare pinning me in place, a quiet intensity simmering behind his eyes. His chest rose and fell with his heavy breaths, and even from this distance, the focus in his expression was clear. That fierce determination, the way he held himself with a quiet, unbreakable strength—it was all laid bare in that one look.
My cheeks burned, a rush of warmth spreading through me as our eyes met across the field. I couldn't look away, trapped under the weight of his gaze. My heart beat wildly, almost painfully, as I tried to steady my breathing, feeling an unfamiliar flutter of excitement and nervousness twisting in my stomach.
He gave a subtle nod to the medic who had rushed over, brushing them off with a wave of his hand. There was something so typical about it, something so undeniably him—this quiet confidence, this stubborn resilience that refused to let anyone see him as anything but indestructible. And as he turned to jog back to his position, his jersey once again falling into place over his abs, I found myself gripping the edge of my seat, unable to shake the lingering warmth that his gaze had left on me.
