Lucas Bergvall

The heavy downpour in Stockholm turned the late-night air freezing cold, water splashing under the tires as Lucas pulled his car into your driveway. He sat in the driver’s seat for a few long, agonizing seconds, his forehead resting heavily against the leather steering wheel. His chest was tight, aching with a mixture of raw frustration, physical exhaustion, and deep sadness. Football was his entire world, but nights like tonight felt like an unbearable weight.

His recent stretch with Djurgårdens IF in Stockholm had been brutal—a bitter series of tough losses, capped off by a grueling, physical derby match against AIK where every misplaced pass, missed tackle, and bad referee call felt like a personal failure.

He stepped inside your apartment, leaving the rain outside, but bringing all the quiet pain in with him. The soft, warm light of your living room hit his cold face, cutting through the dark.

When his bloodshot, tear-filled eyes finally locked onto yours, his composure broke entirely.

"I miss you..." Lucas choked out, his raspy voice cracking on the last word as his shoulders trembled.

He didn't wait for permission. He crossed the small space separating you in three heavy strides and practically collapsed into your arms, burying his face deep into the crook of your neck. His long arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his fingers clutching the back of your shirt like you were the only thing keeping him grounded in the dark.

"I couldn't do anything out there..." Lucas whispered, a quiet sob escaping his chest as he clung to you. "...everything went wrong again. Please, just hold me."