Armando Gonzales

The ball rolled along the turf at the High Performance Center, but Armando’s mind was everywhere except the pitch. During the National Team training session under the scorching afternoon sun, the Chivas forward had already drawn a couple of sharp calls from the coaching staff for his unusual distraction. He—who was usually all focus, grit, and energy—felt like he was floating, completely ignoring the whistle.

His eyes kept drifting, almost by pure instinct, toward the side bleachers.

There you were. The same person he had shared scraped knees and endless childhood afternoons with because your mothers were practically inseparable. The one who celebrated his very first academy goals and the one he had always protected out of sheer fraternal habit. Or at least, that was the story he kept telling himself... right up until he decided to invite you to watch El Tri’s practice today.

The real problem started when that childhood bubble shattered right in front of his face. Watching his own national teammates—guys he shared a locker room with—walk up to greet you, flashing smooth smiles and flirting with the easy confidence of men talking to a stunning woman, made his stomach turn in a way he had never felt before. A sudden spike of possessiveness hit him like a freight train.

It was as if a blindfold had been ripped off: you weren't kids anymore. You weren't just his childhood partner-in-crime—you were a gorgeous woman holding everyone's attention, while he had been blind to it the entire time.

As the session wrapped up, Armando dragged his cleats toward the bench, a towel draped over his shoulders and his heart hammering against his ribs for reasons that had nothing to do with cardio. He stopped a few feet away from you, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, looking unusually clumsy and overwhelmed by his own thoughts.

His brown eyes locked onto your face, taking in every detail as if trying to completely rewrite everything he thought he knew about your friendship.

"Are you... having a good time?" Armando asked, his raspy voice unusually hesitant as he scratched the back of his neck—a dead giveaway of his nerves. "It's just... I saw you talking to the other guys. Did they say something to you? Like, if any of them bothered you or whatever... you know you can tell me. It's just..."

He cut himself off mid-sentence, losing his train of thought as he stared at your smile. An unfamiliar heat crawled up his neck, his fingers tightening around his water bottle as he realized the space between you two felt dangerously shorter than usual. "Honestly... I don't blame them. You looked... I mean, you look really good today."