Volume 1, Chapter 4: Table For Two
I couldn’t believe it. Javier. The fucking worldwide phenomenon. This famous, ridiculously hot footballer had actually agreed to meet me for dinner. Was it a date?
I had no idea, and honestly, I didn’t care. All I knew was that I was about to have the best night of my life. My heart felt ticklish all day, like it couldn’t sit still inside my chest, bouncing around every time I pictured seeing him across the table. I’d been counting down the hours, willing the sun to hurry up and set.
When the time finally came to get ready, I went all in. I wore my best t-shirt and jeans; the ones that people had actually complimented me on before and made sure every hair was in place. I spritzed on my most expensive perfume, the one I only wore for special occasions. I checked my reflection twice, then a third time just to be sure. This wasn’t the kind of night you showed up looking “fine.” This was the kind of night you dressed like the hottest version of yourself.
I got there thirty minutes before we were even supposed to meet. I couldn’t help it, the excitement had me walking faster than I realised. I’d chosen a table tucked away from the rest of the restaurant, private enough that we wouldn’t be seen by fans.
Then came the waiting. Five minutes, fine. Ten minutes, still fine. At fifteen, I started refreshing my phone, just in case I’d missed a text. Twenty passed, then thirty. My leg was bouncing under the table, and every time someone walked by, I glanced up so fast my neck was going to need physio. By thirty-five minutes, it was impossible not to wonder if I’d been played. If all the texting had just been some elaborate joke or catfish situation. The giddy energy I’d walked in with was now mixed with a sick little knot of doubt in my stomach. My knees bounced under the table, fingers drumming against the edge of the menu I’d stopped pretending to read twenty minutes ago. Maybe the pictures, the nudes, the sexting, all of it was a lie. Altered.
Edited deepfakes of a celebrity wasn’t that difficult to do. Maybe it was some random fan who’d spotted me at the VIP experience and saw how obsessed I was with Javier and decided to play a cruel prank. I was just about convinced he wasn’t going to show.
And of course, that was the exact moment I saw him walking in.
My breath hitched so hard I nearly choked on it. Javier. Hoodie up, strings pulled, hands shoved deep into the kangaroo pocket like he was hiding in plain sight. But even dressed down like that, even trying to blend into the shadows, there was no mistaking him. That walk. That posture. That face half-hidden but still too recognizable. It was him.
I froze. My brain went completely blank except for the single, panicked reminder - holy fuck, this was real.
He looked up, scanning the room, and when his eyes landed on me, I swear I felt it in my chest. That flicker of recognition, the way his lips tugged into the smallest smile before he slid into the booth across from me.
“Uhm… hi,” I blurted out, too fast, too breathless.
“Hi,” he echoed, voice low, casual, like this wasn’t the most surreal moment of my entire life.
The smile on his face was subtle, almost shy, and that alone undid me. His hood shadowed his features, but I could see the corners of his mouth twitch like he was fighting not to laugh at how wide-eyed I probably looked.
I swallowed hard, sitting straighter, trying to play it cool, though my pulse was absolutely betraying me. The table suddenly felt way too small, like he was too close, like all the words we’d thrown at each other over text were pressing down between us now that we were finally in the same space.
“You came,” I said, softer than I meant to, like I needed to hear it out loud.
“Of course I did,” he replied, almost teasing, his accent rolling warm over the words.
“You really thought I wouldn’t?”
“I mean… I thought someone was playing a prank on me,” I admitted, my voice coming out quieter than I meant. My hands were resting on the table, almost clenched together. That’s when he reached across, casually at first, but then his fingers slid over mine.
“Don’t worry, Noah. This is real. I’m real.” His voice softened, and for a split second, he let his hand hold mine, firm and grounding, like he wanted me to know he meant every word. But then reality seemed to catch up with him. His eyes flicked to the side, remembering where we were. A public place. His hoodie. His attempt at invisibility. Quickly, almost awkwardly, he pulled his hand back and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie again.
I smiled, pretending not to notice the hesitation. He smiled back, sheepish, like we’d just shared a secret we weren’t supposed to.
We ordered nachos, fries, and a couple of drinks, nothing fancy, just the kind of food that felt safe and unpretentious. At first, the air was still heavy with nerves, but little by little he loosened up. He started telling me stories about training sessions, about how exhausting the travel was, how sometimes he wished he could just be a regular twenty-something instead of this international footballer with the world glued to his every move. There was a glow to him when he laughed, and I couldn’t stop watching the way his lips curved when he smirked, the way his accent wrapped around every word.
But every time a waiter walked by or someone new entered the restaurant, he instinctively pulled his hood a little lower, tilted his face away, or reached for his glass as if he could use it as a shield. It was strange and a little thrilling, like I was sharing something forbidden, something private that not everyone got to see.
And in between bites of fries and laughter about nothing, there was this unspoken connection building. The kind that makes you feel like you’ve known someone forever even though the night was barely a few hours old.
I felt the words bubbling up before I was ready to say them. “Uhm Ja-- vi.. Javier… I really like this,” I murmured, my voice embarrassingly shy.
“Like… I like you. I mean…” I laughed nervously and rubbed at the back of my neck.
“I don’t know how to ask this, but… would you wanna come over to my place?”
“I live like five minutes away.”, I said with hesitation.
For the first time that night, he didn’t answer right away. He stared at me, eyes soft but cautious, weighing the risk. His lips parted, then closed, like he was about to say no. My stomach dropped, and then finally, he gave the smallest smile.
“Okay,” he said, almost under his breath. “Let's fucking do this.”
We settled the bill quickly after that. He stood up first, glancing around with the same careful paranoia he’d carried all evening. Before leaving, he leaned down, close enough that I felt his breath by my ear.
“I’ll go ahead. Wait a few minutes, then meet me. People can’t see us leave together,” he whispered, almost apologetic.
I nodded, my chest pounding. He slipped out into the night, hood pulled up, disappearing like a shadow. I sat there for ten long minutes, pretending to sip the last of my drink, my heart racing faster with each tick of the clock.
When I finally left and walked the short distance home, he was already there, waiting near the corner of my apartment building like he’d said. Hands deep in his hoodie, hood still up, head tilted down. Like the country’s most famous footballer had just been reduced to one nervous boy waiting outside my door.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
