Canvas Stadium
The stadium hummed with the roar of expectation -- a sea of voices, colors and energies.
Flags waved in the wind, chants broke out like thunder, camera flashes filled the air like sparkling fireflies. It was the championship final — Real Alcázar CF vs. Chalco FC— and the city had been anticipating this game all season.
The scoreline remained lodged at 1-1, tension hanging like invisible wire in the air.
In the VIP seating box high above the mayhem sat Suzzanne Gutierrez—untouchable, inscrutable.
She epitomized control and precision, though subtle, she had a certain magnetism.
She wore a grey plaid blazer and its fine detailed in crisp put together in the tiniest of precise details down to a matching button-up shirt which clasped underneath in a smooth, perfectly symmetrical monochrome line.
Her hair was the texture of silk and the colour of the night, it was cut straight and reached to her waist, not a single hair was out of place.
The makeup was soft, neutral — enough to show off the strength of the almond of her eyes and the cool set of her lips, but nothing extraneous.
As the match continued, she sat in a stance calling for no fanfare--yet all eyes were on her.
Even the VIPs muttered her name with a blend of reverence and terror.
But Suzzanne noticed no one.
Her gaze was held — held on the field, on a single player.
The game was moving at a breakneck pace.
The ball was in Real Alcázar CF's possession again, and the clock was ticking, stridently ticking — 72 minutes gone, still tied.
The centre midfielder received a clean ball out of the back, turned, and played it into the new wide midfielder who was now being closed down by the aggressive Chalco FC defenders. The ball was almost picked off to gasps from the crowd — but it didn't stop.
The winger poked it through two players with a deft flick of the heel—and all of a sudden the ball was trundling on the green turf towards the centre-half of Real Alcázar CF.
That was him.
The pace of the game shifted the instant he received it.
Number 4. Broad shoulders. Confident stance. A tranquillity, that belied the tempest going on around him.
The central back was not just defending. He was reading the field, and the players, the gaps.
He looked left. Then right.
The pressure built. Chalco FC's strikers closed in, and there was nowhere for him to go. The Chalco goalie was set, knees bent, eyes flashing like a hawk.
But Number 4 wasn't panicked.
He moved with the precision of a conductor setting the tempo — no more than a foot placement, a breath, and then —
He struck.
The ball shot upward, cutting through the air. It wasn't rushed. It was intentional. Clean. Calculated. Almost elegant.
For a beat, the entire stadium paused. The ball curled, danced over the defenders' heads and skimmed toward the net.
The goalkeeper lunged—both hands stretching—
But it wasn't enough.
GOAL.
The net rippled.
The crowd erupted. A wall of sound swept over the stadium.
2 – 1. Real Alcázar CF go in front.
His teammates mobbed him — clapping his back, tugging at his jersey, ruffling his hair.
The fans screamed his name. The expression on his face was a mix of proud and happy — heartfelt pure raw emotion.
But high above in the VIP box, Suzzanne didn't react much.
She didn't stand. She didn't cheer.
She wore a detached expression on her face, cold, unblinking eyes. What others celebrated with, she just stared at.
Not at the score.
Not at the team.
Not at the field.
At him.
The central defender. Number 4.
She'd been watching him the whole game.
Not a blink. Not a glance elsewhere.
As though it were something — someone — she possessed. Or would.
She stood.
The crowd continued to scream.
Her heels softly clicked against the concrete as she walked away from the VIP box, with her assistant Felix quietly following suite.
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
Behind her, the match continued to roar, the game still not over.
But for her—what she came to see had already happened.
Canvas Stadium's Locker Room
The noise of the stadium had long since receded, replaced by laughter, and slaps on the back that echoed hollowly around the plush obscurity of Real Alcázar CF's dressing room.
Steam and cologne hung heavy in the air, towels draped over benches. Third Ward cougars tossing jerseys aside. Some players were draped in white towels, freshly scrubbed from the showers; others were half-dressed, chattering with barely containable joy.
The final score: 2-1.
Victory was theirs.
An hour had passed. The chaos dulled into silence. Fluorescent lights hummed gently overhead and illuminated the now largely empty room.
Only two remained.
Enrique Velasquez, the perfect central defender — hero of the game — and Gael Rodriguez, their top scorer, their ace striker.
Enrique had his back to the lockers, a white towel hanging low on his hips, tiny drops of water falling from the ends of his thick dark hair.
He was one of those men who were just impossibly good-looking, in a classic, natural sort of way.
A heavy square jaw, a sharply defined nose, and cheekbones that reflected the light so that there was just enough shadow to chisel his face.
Sharp hazel-green-eyes, which looked softened by his thick, dark brows. His hair was wet and falling all over his face- in an everyday messy undercut, but with a longer top and a fade on the sides.
Gael was seated beside him on the bench already dressed.
He was clad in a sharp black leather jacket, unzipped halfway over a black crew-neck t-shirt that fit snugly over his athletic physique.
His bright, whiskey colored eyes sparkled with mischief, and contrasted beautifully against his bronzed, caramel skin. He had wavy black hair that was casually swept to the side, lending him the carefree swagger of a rockstar.
"You totally stole the damn show today," Gael smiled, flipping a water bottle between his hands. "I had a goal too but, you know who everyone's tweeting about?"
Enrique sniggered to himself as he donned a fresh pair of black briefs and pulled on his jeans. "I didn't intend to be the star. You want the spotlight, take it."
"Yeah, yeah," Gael fended him off with a smile. "But you've got that haunted-hero vibe. The crowd eats it up."
Enrique shrugged as he reached for his white shirt, fingers slow and distracted.
"You heading out after this?" he asked.
Gael stood, checking his phone. "Dinner. Drinks. Maybe trouble. You?"
Enrique shook his head as he buttoned his shirt. "Just want some quiet."
Gael snorted. "You. I swear, sometimes I don't even know you exist."
But before Enrique could respond, Gael's phone buzzed in his palm.
His smirk vanished. "Gimme a sec."
Without another word, he left the locker room.
Enrique got back to work and settled on the wooden bench to pull on his boots.
The world beyond the room had been muted — only a faint buzzing now. He concentrated on the laces, lacing them evenly, thinking ahead already to after the match.
Until he wasn't alone.
The one he saw first was not a face.
It was a pair of heels.
Black. Tall. Immaculate.
Connected to them, graceful ankles, legs that swung like they were painted art and a black dress, hugging her like a silhouette that looked flattering, slick material to a perfectly sculpted form cut from something otherworldly.
Slowly, Enrique's gaze traveled upward.
Standing directly in front of him was-
Suzzanne Gutierrez.
Author's Note:
Thankyou for reading<3
Have a Good Day/Night<3<3