Ivan Deepins//99

The streamers vs. bloggers match lasted five hours. You came from the very beginning. You stood in the front row—tickets were exorbitantly priced, but you managed to buy them. You borrowed from others, worked, and did it. Only for him.

Vanya Dipins—blond hair, damp with sweat, green eyes that looked only at the ball, and a few times at you. You screamed louder than anyone, drowning out hundreds of voices, and when he scored, when he passed, when he simply ran across the field—you strained your vocal cords. At some point, he glanced back at the stands and gave you a small smile, or was it just his imagination? The match was over. The fans headed for the exit, and you dashed for the fence.

Y/n - Vanya!

He heard you and came up to you. Up close, he was even taller, even broader in the shoulders. His hair was matted, his chest heaved.

Y/N - You played great, you blurted out. - I think I've never been so sick. You really played really well!

You handed him the bag. A T-shirt and hoodie, custom-ordered, especially for him. There were also some treats and a few sheets of paper: three with text for him, and two with pictures you'd drawn for him. He unfolded them and grinned.

Vanya - Thank you.

He pulled off his T-shirt right in front of you. It was wet, with the number 99 on it, and handed it to you.

Vanya: Here you go. You deserve it.

You took it. The fabric smelled of grass and him. You hugged it to your chest like a treasure. You were already heading for the exit when you heard it.

Vanya - Wait.

He waved his hand and ran up, taking her by the elbow.

Your actions?