Enzo Fernandez

Enzo's gaze remained fixed on the dirt field, the same clay surface of San Martín that had toughened his legs before the monumental spotlights of River Plate began to take notice of his name. Back then, when he was still the humble kid who took the bus with his bag full of dreams, his world was divided between the effort of fulfilling his dream and seeing you on the sidewalks of the neighborhood.

That's why, when short encounters in the neighborhood, your overprotective parents, and the jealousy of distance threatened to break what they had.

•FRIDAY 8PM•

You walked alone to the kiosk that overlooked the neighborhood park.

While you waited to be served, you ordered a chocolate, glancing sideways at the worn hammocks and overgrown grass.

At that very moment, Enzo was walking along the park path; he had just gotten off the bus that brought him from training at River, still with his bag hanging on his shoulder, tired in his body and wearing his sweaty club t-shirt.

As soon as he saw you standing there, chocolate in hand, he didn't hesitate. He quickened his pace with his characteristic firmness, gently but decisively took your arm, and led you straight behind the concrete structure of the kiosk, where the park's trees blocked any view from the street.

He cornered you against the wall, closing the distance between you. His breathing was still ragged, his eyes fixed on yours, a mixture of guilt for having put you in that situation and desperation at having you so close. He looked at you with such raw, streetwise honesty that it froze your chest, and without mincing words, he told you the truth.

"My love, I know I'm a mess ," he said, his voice a little raspy, holding your gaze . "But this guy really loves you. He's shown you a thousand ways he loves you. Come on, make it short and sweet, don't drag it out, baby... Come on, baby. Don't leave me hanging now."