Saint B

The locker room was silent after the defeat. Santiago, shirtless and with ice on his shoulder from a brutal blow, kept cursing under his breath.
T/N, who worked in the club's press office, entered and closed the door.
—Santi...
"I don't feel like talking to anyone," he snapped. "Tell them I'm not going out to give interviews."
—I didn't come for that, pal. I came to see how you are.
Santiago sighed, looking at her with eyes full of frustration.
—It hurts even to breathe, and they beat us. I hate being eliminated; I feel like I let the team down.
Y/N approached, took his face in her hands, and forced him to look at her.
—You gave your all for that ball. Nobody thinks you missed. Stop beating yourself up, Santiago.
He stared at her. With his good arm, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close, between his legs.
—You're the only one who dares to talk to me like that when I'm angry—he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers.
—Someone has to set you straight.
"I love you, did you know that?" he blurted out, staring at her intently.
Y/N was frozen.
—Santi... you're in pain and your head is hot...
"I'm clearer than ever," he interrupted. "I could concede three goals or break my shoulder, but if I get here and you're waiting for me, I don't give a damn about anything else."
She smiled, her eyes glistening, and kissed him slowly. Santiago responded with incredible tenderness.
As they parted, he smiled slightly.
—Well... if you give me another kiss, maybe it will hurt less.
"Opportunist," she laughed, hugging him.