Until my last breath

39

Montreal, Canada

The glow from my laptop screen is the only light in the dark hotel room. The curtains are shut, muffling the city outside, but I can still hear the occasional honk of a car, the faint hum of life carrying on.

4:07 AM.

I should be sleeping. I need to be sleeping. But instead, I'm sitting cross-legged on the bed, wrapped in a hotel robe, eyes locked on the screen as the players walk onto the pitch.

I don't even remember when I made the decision to watch. Maybe it was the day I found out he watches my races. Maybe it was the way he scoffed when I admitted I don't really follow football anymore, calling it embarrassing before practically forcing me to promise I'd watch his next game. Or maybe, deep down, it's just nostalgia.

Because I used to watch.

Before my life revolved around tracks and circuits, before my mother and I left Paris before I lost my dad, he and I used to sit in the living room, watching FC Barcelona play. I didn't understand tactics, didn't know anything about the sport, but I knew my father loved it. And when you're a kid, that's enough.

Now, all these years later, the same team is playing, but the circumstances are different.

I promised him, I'll watch.

His first game back after his red card suspension.

The camera zooms in on him during the lineup, and even though the crowd is deafening, he looks as focused as ever, his brows sharply frowned. There's something about him that reminds me of the way I feel before a race—like nothing else exists except the game in front of him.

I shift against the pillows as the match kicks off, telling myself I won't get too invested. I'll watch casually, stay neutral.

That lasts all of five minutes.

Because once Gavi gets the ball, I'm sitting up straighter, fingers curling around the edge of my blanket. His style is aggressive, relentless, the kind of player that never stops moving. He's everywhere at once, pressing, tackling, creating chances.

It's impressive. Objectively speaking.

And yet, every time he gets tackled, I catch myself muttering a quiet, "Get up, idiot."

Minute 73'.
1-1

The game is intense, fast-paced. The kind that demands your full attention. And despite the exhaustion weighing on me, I don't blink.

Minute 86'

A goal.

Not just any goal—a Pablo Gavi goal.

The stadium erupts. My breath catches for half a second before I shake my head, exhaling.

He's sprinting to the corner, fists clenched, screaming something into the night. His teammates swarm him, the energy radiating through the screen and above all, the unbreakable passion . And me?

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head.

I don't think. I just grab my phone, typing before I can overanalyze it.

Rita: Golazo, champ.

I expect him to see it later, after the game, or maybe even tomorrow. But a few mintues after the players return to their locker rooms right after the fulltime whistle my phone lights up in the dark room.—

Gavi: You stayed up?

I hesitate before responding.

Rita: What did you think? I'm one to stick to my promises.