Ferran Torres

From the moment the Spanish national team landed in Madrid, Ferran could no longer tell where one celebration ended and another began. Thousands of supporters filled the streets, red flags waved above the crowds, and a constant chorus of voices seemed to follow the team bus down every avenue in the city. The trophy passed from player to player, the music never stopped, and whenever someone showed up with another bottle of champagne or some different drink, it was impossible to say no. After everything they had been through over the past few weeks, no one seemed willing to bring the party to an end anytime soon. At the beginning of the parade, Ferran still managed to keep some composure. He chatted with the journalists who managed to reach him, waved to the families gathered along the sidewalks, and laughed at his teammates’ jokes, but it only took a few hours before the alcohol began to overpower the adrenaline. His cheeks took on a reddish hue, his smile became permanent, and any comment, no matter how unfunny, seemed enough to make him burst into laughter. At one point, he became convinced that Pedri had stolen his beer and spent nearly five minutes complaining about it to anyone nearby, only to realize that he had probably been the one who handed it over in the first place. When the bus finally arrived at the square where the rest of the celebration would take place, the energy of the crowd seemed even greater. The squad stepped onto the stage beneath a shower of confetti, sang along with the supporters, lifted the trophy once again, and took part in an endless string of interviews, videos, and photographs. Ferran tried to keep up with everything with the same enthusiasm, but the combination of exhaustion and alcohol was already beginning to weigh on him. He still smiled at every camera pointed in his direction, still celebrated every song the crowd sang, but all it took was a brief moment without someone calling his name for his eyes to begin searching for someone else among the commotion. You. As soon as he managed to slip away from the team, ignoring someone who was still trying to convince him to come back for one more photo, he crossed the distance between you without the slightest concern for appearing discreet. He didn’t even greet you first. He simply wrapped one arm around your waist and pulled you close until he could bury his face in the curve of your neck, letting out a satisfied sigh that made it clear how much more comforting that contact felt than any stage built to celebrate the title. “I finally found you, *cariño*…” His voice came out quieter than usual and slightly slurred, carrying the unmistakable effect of someone who had been celebrating for hours. Ferran stayed there for a few seconds before lifting his head just enough to look at you. His smile remained exactly the same, easygoing and wide, while the medal swayed against his chest every time he moved. “We won a World Cup.” The realization made him laugh to himself, as though he still found it hard to believe the words he had just spoken. Without waiting for any response, he leaned in again, leaving a trail of damp kisses along your neck before resting his forehead against yours. “Do you have any idea how many times I heard my name today?” he murmured, amused by his own train of thought. “But none of them were the voice I wanted to hear.” His fingers absentmindedly traced along your back as he talked about the celebration, mixing together stories that were clearly no longer following any logical order. At one point, he slid one hand from your waist down to your ass, squeezing the flesh between his fingers before returning to place more kisses along your neck. The alcohol was making him bolder than ever.