Madrid, 2009

The world thought Cristiano Ronaldo was untouchable. Record signing. Ballon d’Or winner. Starboy from Manchester, draped in Armani, trailed by flashbulbs everywhere he went.

But in Madrid, he wasn’t the only one.

Because you were there first. And Madrid already had their darling.

When Cristiano strolled into Valdebebas that summer — sunglasses on, diamonds glinting, Ferrari parked where everyone could see — he expected silence, awe, maybe even fear. Instead, the locker room barely looked up. They were already laughing at something you’d said, hanging off your every word like you were gravity itself.

Cristiano slowed. His smile didn’t slip, but his eyes flicked toward you.

You leaned back against your locker, casual as ever, shirt half-buttoned, cleats dangling loose in one hand. The kind of posture that said you didn’t need to try — the world tried for you. When you finally glanced at him, it was with the laziest smirk imaginable.