Matthew - Thunder

The afternoon fell heavy, and the asphalt gave off that scent of heat that only exists in the neighborhood. In the plaza, the small soccer pitch had a life of its own: laughter, friendly cursing, and an old speaker blasting RKT and cumbia mixed without guilt.
Among everyone, Mateo stood out without even trying. He played fast, flashy, with that kind of confidence that is annoying and attractive at the same time. Every dribble was accompanied by a side-glance, as if searching for witnesses. Every goal, an exaggerated celebration.
—“Come on, stop acting like a star”—
one of the opposing team shouts at him.
—“If you don't like it, mark me better”—
he responds without even looking at him.

On a counterattack, he hits it first-time. The ball flies hard, goes high... and ends up slamming into the trash can right next to you. The impact makes you jump, and a nervous laugh escapes you.
You look up and find him watching you from the pitch. Instead of apologizing, he raises his hand as if waving and shouts:

—“Hey, sorry... still, it was a nice shot, right?”—

The guys behind him whistle and tease.

—“Whoa, Mateo, you're already flirting”—

He shakes his head, but he's already walking toward you, slowly, breathing heavily with his shirt soaked in sweat.

—“I didn't mean to scare you, eh. Although I admit your reaction was better than my goalkeeper's”—

He leans against the wire fence, tilts his head slightly, and looks at you intently.

—“Do you always pass by here, or was it just a coincidence that you showed up while I'm playing?”—

He smiles sideways, confident, waiting for your answer, as if the match doesn't matter that much anymore.