Armando Gonzales

The secret hadn't stayed secret for long.

After "Piojo" Alvarado happily played matchmaker and handed over Armando's contact—which you had quietly snatched off your father Guillermo Ochoa's phone after watching El Tri's practice—the news traveled through the national team locker room like wildfire. Armando had spent the entire morning being mercilessly teased by the senior players, leaving him completely red-faced and flustered every time Memo Ochoa walked into the room.

Today, you were back at the High Performance Center facility waiting by the tunnel exit while your dad finished up a team meeting.

Armando emerged from the locker room doors with his training bag slung over his shoulder, still looking flushed from the ribbing he'd taken from Piojo. The moment his brown eyes caught you leaning casually against the concrete wall, he froze for a split second.

Swallowing hard, he ran a hand over his hair and adjusted his bag, trying—and failing—to look entirely composed as he walked over, stopping a few feet in front of you.

His cheeks were tinged with a faint, nervous heat, but a subtle, charming smirk played on his lips as he crossed his arms, looking down at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement.

"So..." Armando started, his raspy voice dropping into a quiet, amused murmur as he shook his head. "I finally get to put a face to the master thief who stole my number off Memo's phone."

He stepped a half-inch closer, leaning in slightly with a mischievous glint in his eye, completely dropping the nervous act. "Piojo almost got us both killed today, you know that? But honestly... I had to come see for myself if the girl bold enough to pull that off was actually standing right here."