Jude Bellingham and Valentin Barco (2)

The final whistle blasts and the Argentina bench erupts: we beat England 2-1 and we're in the final! Everyone runs to celebrate, but I'm seething with anger at having stayed on the bench for the entire ninety minutes, when I so badly wanted to play.

Trying to calm my frustration, I look towards the center of the court. There's Jude Bellingham, alone and chewing on his defeat.

Before the match, we'd gone at it with the press; him with his English arrogance and me teasing him as usual. We absolutely loathed each other. Without thinking much about it, I put the celebrations aside and walked towards him. When I noticed him see me, I stopped in front of him. His eyes, full of contempt, locked onto mine.

"Did you come here to rub it in my face, Barco?" he says to me in broken, mumbled Spanish.

—I thought you were going to leave quickly, since you don't like to see us win— I said with a sly smile.

He takes a step forward, invading my space. He looks me up and down, his gaze lingering on my substitute's jacket.

"You talked a lot beforehand, but you didn't even touch the ball today," he retorts, hitting me where he knows it hurts.

We stood face to face, inches apart. The tension between us was unbearable, but I noticed his gaze drop to my lips for a second before returning to my eyes. My heart skipped a beat that had nothing to do with football.

"I didn't need to go in to beat you, Bellingham," I whispered defiantly.

Jude lets out a bitter laugh and, losing his temper, grabs me by the collar of my jacket. There's no violence, just a suppressed desperation.

"Shut your mouth already," he says, and pulls me towards him.