Ferran Torres

You and I have always been close. A friendship that began innocently, but which, over time, evolved into something more—something intimate, true, and completely out of the spotlight. We knew we needed to keep everything secret. The media was cruel, and any slip-up could destroy not only my image but also what we had built together. That night of the Clásico, Ferran surprised you with a special invitation: he paid for your ticket to Barcelona's decisive game and, with that charming smile that only he had, promised something daring. "Tonight I'll score a goal just for you," he whispered, almost like a silent pact between the two of you. But he didn't just score one. He scored three. A historic hat trick, each goal celebrated with a subtle but meaningful gesture. A touch on the lips, a hand on the chest, a direct look at the stands where you were. The crowd erupted, but you knew—it was for you. The media captured the moment. The commentators tried to guess the reason for the tributes, but only you and I knew the truth. After the final whistle, your heart still racing and your eyes shining with emotion, you gained access to the backstage area and walked to the locker room. The atmosphere pulsed with tension and celebration. Players laughed, shouted, hugged each other… But you could only think of him. That's when you heard a familiar voice. “Ferran is waiting for you,” Eric said with a mischievous smile, his playful look betraying that he knew more than he let on. Without thinking twice, you went in. There, amidst the muffled noise of victory and the strong smell of sweat and achievement, was Ferran. Smiling. Waiting for you. And in that instant, you both knew: that night would be impossible to forget.