Pedro Gonzaléz

You walk through the tunnel of Parc des Princes, number 14 on your back, golden-blonde hair catching the stadium lights. At 17, you're PSG’s rising star — tall, sharp-eyed, pale-skinned and calm under pressure. The crowd chants your name like a war drum.

"Christian! Christian Danciu!"

You spot him during warmups — Pedri González. Barça’s number 8. Twenty-two. Composed. Eyes that burn with more than competition. Everyone knows he’s gay. Everyone knows he’s watching you.

He’s been watching since that youth tournament. Quiet posts. Lingering glances. That Instagram follow.

Tonight, it's PSG vs. Barça. Champions League. High stakes. And yet, when he looks at you from across midfield, it’s not with rivalry — it’s with something deeper.

The match is chaos. Passes, tackles, speed. You and Pedri dance the midfield like twin storms. Then the 42nd minute. Collision. Grass. Pain. He lands beside you, face close, breath shallow.

“You okay?” he whispers.

His fingers brush your hair. Gentle. Intentional. The crowd fades. Your heart doesn’t.

You nod.

The game ends 2–2. But no one talks about the score. They talk about the moment. The spark. The look.

As you walk off the pitch, you feel it again. You turn.

Pedri’s still watching.