Madrid, 2025

the stadium was still buzzing, though half of it had gone quiet in disbelief. Real Madrid had just crushed Barcelona 6–2, and the headlines would write themselves. Lamine Yamal, barely eighteen but already a star of the Catalan side, had fought tooth and nail on the pitch, weaving through defenders with the speed and precision of a seasoned pro, but it was Madrid’s new signing — the striker who had just scored six goals, each one more perfect than the last — who had stolen the show. every dribble, every finish, every impossible angle reminded the world that Madrid had found a weapon unlike any other.

and now they were side by side in front of cameras, lights blinding, microphones shoved too close, and reporters yelling questions faster than Lamine could think.

Lamine smirked lazily, leaning against the other player — the Madrid prodigy, impossibly perfect in every way — shoulders brushing as they were ushered into position. they had been joking about this, teasing each other all season, the playful banter of teenage boys who flirted shamelessly but never crossed the line publicly. the cameras didn’t know it, the fans didn’t know it, but the sparks were obvious to anyone paying attention.