Volume 1, Chapter 1: Moving To Barcelona
Moving to Barcelona was supposed to be about work. A promotion, a bigger pay check, the kind of corporate opportunity people put on LinkedIn with way too many emojis. But if I’m being honest? That was only half the reason.
The other half had light blue eyes, ridiculous calves, and the kind of smile that made me pause highlights just to stare at the screen. Javier. Javier Álvarez. Midfielder for club Atlético Marena. National treasure. My personal obsession.
Even before I moved to Spain, I’d watch every single one of his matches like it wasreligion. Didn’t matter if kick-offs were at 2 a.m. back home; I was there, bleary- eyed, hunched over my laptop, whispering commentary like an unhinged sports commentator. Since moving here, it’s gotten worse. Or better. Depends who you ask.
I go to every home game I can. I never miss a chance to see him live, to watch him own the pitch like it belongs to him. The way he controls the ball, the way his shirt clings to him after a sprint, the way he laughs with his teammates, it’s hot, perfect, and honestly maddening.
I’ve blown stupid amounts of money just to get closer. VIP seats for a better view. Contests, giveaways... anything that might get me in the same room as Javier. Until last week, it was just that: expensive daydreaming.
And then the universe decided to mess with me. I bought what was, without question, the most ridiculously overpriced VIP ticket I’ve ever seen and it turned out to be the one. The golden ticket. Out of thousands of seats sold, mine came with a once-in-a-lifetime Meet the Players experience. Atlético Marena’s elite PR event. A1 private lounge. Cameras. Champagne. And players - plural. Which, yes, is great andall… but for me, there’s only one that matters.. Javier.
I don’t know how I missed that this was a giveaway when I bought it. Maybe that’s for the best. If I’d known, the wait would’ve given me a heart attack. Instead, it hit me all at once. The realization. The fact that I’ll be breathing the same air as Javier. That I’ll get to shake his hand. Look him in the eyes. Maybe even… touch him.
That’s where my story starts - in my room, standing in front of the mirror, trying to look casual while my brain is screaming like a teenage fangirl. In a few hours, I’ll be at the stadium. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll accept the piece of art I’ve spent hours working on just for him; a portrait that probably won’t mean half as much to him as it does to me. I even wrote my phone number on the back. It’s not like I actually expect a ridiculously handsome, straight pro footballer to do anything with it… but still. You never know.
──
The morning of the VIP event felt like Christmas, a job interview, and a first date rolled into one. I woke up before my alarm, heart thudding, brain already buzzing with the same loop: I’m meeting Javier today.
I’d told myself I’d keep it cool, but the moment my feet hit the floor, I was fussing over every detail. Shower. Hair. Skin. Clothes. Nothing too try-hard, but not “I just threw this on” either. I wanted to look good - good enough that, if Javier glanced at me for even half a second, I wouldn’t immediately want to crawl into a hole.
I’d spent the past week planning the outfit like it was some kind of tactical operation. Slim-fit black jeans, crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms but not scream look at my forearms. Clean sneakers. A watch I barely ever wear because I don’t want to scratch it. I stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the fabric, turning side to side, trying to strike that impossible balance between casual and I’ve-been-thinking-about-this-for-months.
On the desk sat the real centerpiece of my day - the drawing. I’d been working on it for weeks, hunched over the paper late into the night. Javier mid-match, the ball at his feet, eyes locked forward like he already knew the ending. Every line, every shadow, every smudge was deliberate. I’d poured so much into it that my fingertips were still stained faintly from graphite. On the back, in my neatest handwriting, I’d written my phone number.
It was ridiculous. I knew it. He’s a professional footballer. Straight. Gorgeous in that infuriating, unattainable way. He probably gets fan art handed to him by the dozen, and I’m just one more in the pile. But still, I couldn’t stop picturing him flipping it over later, seeing the number, and… I don’t know. Thinking about it. Thinking about me.
By the time I grabbed my bag and stepped out, the Barcelona sun was already beating down on the streets. My stomach was in knots, my palms were sweaty, and yet there was this giddy current running under it all. Today wasn’t just about being a fan in the stands. Today, I’d be in the room. Breathing the same air. Maybe even close enough to catch that faint mix of grass and sweat and cologne I’d only ever Imagined.
And if the universe was feeling generous… maybe close enough to touch him.
─
The VIP entrance was nothing like the crowded gates I was used to. No shoulder-to- shoulder fans, no security guards yelling in Catalan to keep moving. Just polished glass doors, a smiling hostess in an Atlético Marena blazer, and the cool whisper of air- conditioning as I stepped inside.
The lounge looked like something out of a sports documentary, sleek leather couches, walls lined with framed jerseys, champagne flutes already waiting on silver trays. I handed over my ticket, got my lanyard, and tried not to look like the kid in a candy store that I absolutely was.
One by one, the players began to filter in. First was Lucas Navarro, grinning ear to ear, shaking hands with everyone, always the first to crack a joke. Then Thiago Mendes, tall and lean, his handshake warm, his cologne sharp and expensive. I even managed to mumble something coherent to Stefan Vermeer, who had that easy, practiced smile you give when you’ve spent years being photographed and expected to charm strangers.
I laughed when appropriate, posed for a couple of pictures, clutched my champagne glass like a prop. But really, I was just waiting. Every time the door opened, my chest tightened.
And then he walked in.
Javier.
It was ridiculous how quickly the room seemed to shift around him. Not loud or flashy. Just… present. His dark brown eyes scanned the crowd, sharp but soft at the same time. His hair was trimmed close on the sides, the top styled with that effortless messiness that takes more time than anyone admits. His face was freshly shaved, skin catching the light in a way that made him look like he’d stepped out of a football magazine cover; golden from the sun, healthy, glowing. In his case, he was probably on every sports, men’s, and fashion magazine in Spain, and plenty of international ones too.
He moved through the room slowly, greeting people with that modest little smile I’d seen a hundred times on TV. And then, somehow, it was my turn.
Up close, it was worse. Or better. Holy fuck, he was beautiful. My chest felt tight, my palms suddenly clammy as I shifted the artwork folder under my arm and reached out.
“Uhm… hi… Javi—” My voice cracked, and I panicked, correcting myself.
“Javier…”
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