Fortified -Pau Cubarsí-

25 - Practice makes perfect

The pitch is quiet, wrapped in the warm glow of early evening. The kind of quiet that feels rare—just the hum of distant traffic and the occasional bird calling from somewhere in the trees. My bike crunches over gravel as I stop just outside the gates. I swing my leg over and pull my helmet off, my hair sticking to my forehead in damp strands.

He's already here, of course. Pau, with his maddening focus, juggling the ball like it's second nature. His touch is so smooth it almost feels like the ball is glued to his cleats. He hasn't noticed me yet, and for a second, I debate sneaking up on him. But before I can, he glances up, catching me frozen at the gate.

"Finally!" he shouts, kicking the ball into the air and catching it on his thigh like it's nothing. "I thought you bailed."

Rolling my eyes, I wheel my bike closer, leaning it against the fence. "If I was going to bail, I wouldn't have biked all the way here. You're welcome, by the way."

"For what?" he asks, his smirk widening as he starts juggling again.

"For gracing you with my presence."

"Oh, lucky me," he teases, letting the ball drop to the ground. He jogs over, still smirking, and tosses the ball at me. I barely catch it, fumbling as it slips through my fingers.

"This is going to be a long night," he says, shaking his head dramatically.

"You asked for this," I fire back, tucking the ball under my arm. "Don't act like you're doing me a favor, Cubarsí."

We start with the basics—well, what he calls the basics. To me, it feels like trying to solve a math problem while blindfolded.

"Just pass it with the inside of your foot," he says, demonstrating effortlessly. The ball rolls across the grass in a straight line, stopping perfectly at my feet.

I try to copy him, but my pass veers wildly to the left, nearly hitting the fence. Pau doubles over laughing, his hands on his knees.

"Wow," he says between breaths. "That might be the worst pass I've ever seen."

"Thanks for the encouragement," I snap, crossing my arms. "I'm not a footballer, remember?"

"Clearly," he mutters, still grinning as he jogs to retrieve the ball.

When he comes back, he places the ball in front of me and steps closer, too close. "Okay," he says, his voice softer now. "Let me help."

Before I can protest, he's behind me, his hands on my hips, gently guiding me into position. I freeze for a second, the warmth of his touch sending my brain into overdrive.

"Relax," he says, his tone teasing. "You're so tense. It's just football."

"Easy for you to say," I mumble, focusing on the ball.

He chuckles, and I feel it vibrate through me as he adjusts my stance. "Alright," he says, stepping back slightly. "Now try."

This time, the ball rolls straight, and Pau cheers like I just scored a winning goal.

"There you go!" he says, clapping. "Natural talent, Cesca."

I shoot him a glare, but I can't help the grin tugging at my lips.

We keep going until the sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the pitch. I'm drenched in sweat, my hoodie sticking to my back as I collapse onto the grass.