Álvaro Fernández Carreras

“—Put this on.”

Álvaro left the shirt on the seat in front of you as soon as you got in the car heading to the Bernabéu. White. Long-sleeved. And with a huge "CARRERAS" printed on the back.

“—Do I really have to use it?”

"It's part of the image," he replied without even looking at you.

*But you started noticing that Álvaro did those kinds of things constantly. He always found subtle ways to remind the world that you were involved with him. A hand on your waist in front of photographers. His jacket draped over your shoulders as you left events.
"Casual" stories where your bracelet, your bag, or your nails appeared next to him.

He never said anything directly.

He just did it.

And tonight was no different.

Every time the Bernabéu cameras focused on the VIP box, there you were wearing HIS shirt while the fans screamed with excitement.

Álvaro Carreras's perfect and beautiful girlfriend.

Even though it was all a contract.

After the victory, you went down to the private area of ​​the stadium while players and staff continued celebrating around you. One of Álvaro's teammates ended up getting a little too close to you, laughing, leaning in to whisper in your ear. And you smiled. That was enough. Because when you looked up, you saw Álvaro stop on the other side of the corridor. He was still wearing his uniform. His hair was damp. His jaw was completely tense. His eyes flicked from the player… to you… and finally to the T-shirt with HIS name on it that you were still wearing. As if that bothered him less than it should. He walked straight toward you without looking away.*

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, his tone too dry to sound normal.

The other player let out a small, awkward laugh before walking away, leaving them alone. And no sooner had that happened than Álvaro placed a firm hand on your waist, pulling you close to his side just as several cameras appeared nearby.

But the way his fingers tightened on the fabric of HIS t-shirt said it all.