Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
“That’s comforting,” I mutter sarcastically, glancing down at the pitch.
As the whistle blows to officially start the game, the stadium erupts once more, the noise cresting to a deafening peak. Despite myself, my fingers tighten around the armrest and my heart races as Santi charges forward, the ball in hand.
The intensity is immediate, the pace of the game unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. From the first pass, it’s clear this isn’t just any other game. It’s a battle, plain and simple.
Santi is everywhere, a blur of motion as he calls plays with sharp precision, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the stadium. He darts through defenders like water slipping through cracks, agile and determined despite his significant size. All of his movements are fluid yet brimming with power, and I can’t help but marvel at just how skilled he is.
The thing is, he always seems to play well, but this… this is different. Every play feels like a high-stakes gamble, and Santi is the linchpin holding it all together.
When he breaks through the opposition’s line, gaining ground with an almost balletic grace, the crowd erupts into a deafening roar. I can’t help but join the others in the box and jump to my feet, clapping and shouting along with them.
Elena leans back in her seat, entirely unbothered for the time being.
“He looks good out there, doesn’t he?” she comments, a sly grin playing on her lips as her gaze tracks Santi sprinting across the field.
I glance at her, trying to focus on the game but failing when I catch the teasing glint in her eyes. My cheeks heat instantly.
“He always looks good,” I mutter, trying to keep my voice even.
Elena raises an eyebrow. “I meant on the pitch, but sure, let’s talk about how disgustingly in love with my cousin you are instead. Honestly, it’s almost nauseating.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off with a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over her heart.
“Oh, Santiago,” she says in a mockingly dreamy voice, fluttering her eyelashes. “You’re so amazing, so perfect -”
“Stop,” I hiss, shoving her arm playfully, but I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “You’re the worst.”
“I know,” she beams, entirely unrepentant. “But seriously - I have to tell you, you’re absolutely glowing right now. You’re like a human floodlight every time you look at him. It’s kind of adorable, actually.”
I roll my eyes, but I wouldn’t be able to deny it even if I really wanted to. Watching Santi out there - commanding the pitch, doing what he loves - it does something to me. My heart feels like it’s simultaneously swelling and clenching at the same time, pride and nerves battling for dominance.
Plus, it’s so bloody hot.
Before I can respond, a gasp ripples through the crowd, and the sharp blast of the referee’s whistle pierces through the air.
My head snaps back to the field just in time to see Santi crumple to the ground, an opposing player sprawled beside him. The collision has been brutal - shoulder to ribs - and I feel the air leave my lungs as I watch him clutch his side, his face contorted in pain on the large screen directly across from our box.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, my hands flying to my mouth as panic surges through me.
Elena remains remarkably composed, though her body gives her away a little by tensing slightly. She sets her coffee down and leans forward, her sharp eyes scanning the field.
“He’ll be fine,” she says, her voice steady, though there’s an edge of concern underneath.
I’m not convinced.
“He’s not moving,” I say, my voice cracking as I grip the armrest of my seat.
Elena places a reassuring hand on my arm.
“Relax, okay? That man is built like a tank. I’ve seen him take worse hits and walk away like nothing happened. Just give him a minute.”
One minute turns into two, then three, and Santi still doesn’t get up. The medics rush onto the field, and my heart is pounding so loudly I can barely hear the chatter of the others who are speculating on what body part might be injured. The crowd outside has quietened significantly, and the players from both teams hover nearby; some kneeling, others pacing as Santi remains on the ground.
“What if he’s really hurt?” I whisper, unable to tear my eyes away.
Elena squeezes my arm. “Listen to me. If there’s one thing I know about Santi, it’s that he doesn’t go down easy. And even if he is hurt, he’s stubborn enough to keep playing just to prove a point.”
“Come on,” I whisper, barely able to breathe as I stare down at him. “Please, get up.”
As if on cue, I see movement.
Santi pushes himself onto his knees, shaking his head as the medics try to assess him.
The stadium erupts in cheers as he finally stands, rolling his shoulder with a grimace but waving off the medics with an unmistakable air of determination.