Until my Last Breath

44

The field is quiet, bathed in the dim glow of the streetlights lining the park. The only sounds are the rhythmic hum of distant traffic and the soft rustling of trees in the midnight breeze. The air is cool against my skin, but my nerves burn hotter than ever.

I toe the worn football at my feet, shifting my weight uncertainly. I should be in bed, trying to calm the storm in my head before the charity match. But instead, here I am, on an empty football pitch at midnight, trying to teach myself something I should've learned years ago.

I take a deep breath and tap the ball forward, mimicking the way I've seen players move on TV. My touch is clumsy, the ball rolling in an unintended direction. I chase after it, frustration curling in my chest.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

I try again, dribbling in slow, careful steps before attempting a shot toward the goal. The ball skids wide, barely making it off the ground. I groan, dragging my hands down my face.

This is hopeless.

"Rita?"

The familiar voice shatters the stillness, sending a jolt down my spine. My head snaps up, eyes landing on Pablo standing a few feet away, his expression unreadable under the streetlights. He wears a hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his hair slightly messy as if he's just rolled out of bed.

For a moment, we just stare at each other. The last time I saw him, I ran-literally. Out of the Nike event, away from the tension between us, from whatever unspoken thing simmered beneath the surface. And now, here he is.

My heart pounds unsteadily.

"Hi," I manage, my voice quieter than I intend.

"Hi," he echoes.

A beat of silence. A long one.

I shift awkwardly, the ball still at my feet. "What are you doing here?"

He raises a brow. "I should be asking you that. What are you doing on a football pitch? At midnight?"

I exhale, rubbing my arm. "I have a charity match next week, and I know so little about football. I don't want to embarrass myself."

He nods slowly, processing my words. There's tension-thick and unspoken, stretching between us. I can tell he hasn't forgotten how our last encounter ended.

His gaze flickers to the ball. "And you didn't call me for help because...?"

I hesitate, looking down. "I didn't want to both-"

"You're lucky I happen to come here every week at midnight," he cuts in, stepping onto the field, hands in his pockets. His tone is light, but there's something else in it. Something deeper.

I blink at him, thrown. "You come here every week?"

"Yeah," he shrugs. "Helps clear my head."

I don't ask what he needs to clear his head from.

Instead, I watch as he steps closer, nudging the ball with the inside of his foot, testing its weight. "Alright," he says, glancing at me. "Show me what you've got."

I huff a small laugh. "I don't think you want to see that."

"Come on, Bianchi," he teases, his lips twitching at the corners. "I saw you embarrass me at driving . Let's see if you can return the favor here."

Despite the tension lingering in the air, I feel my shoulders relax just slightly.

We start playing, and at first, the awkwardness clings to every movement. He passes the ball lightly to me, and I fumble. I send it back too forcefully, and he winces as he traps it.