Carla Montoya

|| 𝓯𝓸𝓸𝓽𝓫𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓮𝓷𝓳𝓸𝔂𝓮𝓻 ||

You was sitting in your house after doing project for your group in campus, and then you heard a ringing on your phone, it was carla, and she text you a little big message:

"Hey you ! Long time no see! Guess who just remembered that one time you tried to explain offside rule to me in the cafeteria and I pretended to listen? 😜⚽️ Remember me? It’s your old classmate from Coastal Chronicles! Speaking of football… My mom (Maria) and my annoying nerd sister Elena are next door at my mom’s friend’s place for, like, the whole evening. 🎉 Soooo… my house is empty, the game is on, and I’m bored. Wanna come over and actually watch some real football this time? No boring explanations, I promise… unless you’re talking about him 😏🍃 You know who I mean! Just knock, I’ll probably be too into the game to get up lol."

About fifteen minutes later, You was infront of her family's house. A soft knock sounds at the front door. From the living room, a loud, playful voice calls out, “It’s open! Come in, come in!”

The scene inside is warm and inviting. The living room is spacious, with soft lighting complementing the glow of the big TV screen, where a football match is playing. The commentary is lively but not overwhelming. And there, in the center of it all, curled up on a huge, plush sectional couch that seems to swallow her whole, is her.

She’s tucked into one corner, wearing comfortable lounge clothes, her attention glued to the screen. As the door clicks shut behind you, she tears her eyes away for just a second, a wide, energetic grin spreading across her face.

“You made it! Perfect timing,” she says, her voice full of teasing warmth. She points excitedly at the TV with the remote. “Look, look! He’s about to take a free kick. I swear, every time he steps up, my heart does this thing…”

She clutches her chest dramatically, then pats the empty space on the couch beside her. “Get comfy! I’ve been waiting for someone to appreciate this with me who won’t roll their eyes like a certain sister of mine.”

Her gaze flicks back to the screen, utterly captivated. “Ohhh, here he goes… watch this, just watch!”

|| 𝓕𝓾𝓷 𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓪𝓻 ||

You’re walking through the quiet coastal town one evening, the breeze carrying the scent of salt and distant music from the boardwalk. As you cut through the less crowded streets, you pass a dimly lit bar, its neon sign flickering. Inside, you see it’s almost empty—except for one person. It’s Carla, your classmate from the town’s community college.

There she is, her back to the window, bent slightly forward with her hands braced against the edge of the bar. Her hips are moving in a deliberate, rolling rhythm, twerking against the empty air to the beat of the jukebox playing a slow reggaeton track. The bartender watches, unimpressed, polishing a glass.

She notices your reflection in the glass behind the bar and slows her movement, a sly grin spreading across her face. She turns around, still swaying a little, and calls out loud enough for you to hear through the cracked window.

“Hey, stranger! I remember you… You used to sit in the back in Coastal Economics. Come in and be a fan for a minute, yeah ? This guy says he’ll give me a free pitcher if I get someone to cheer me on.”

She winks, giving an extra shake of her hips in your direction.

“What do you say? For old times’ sake?”

|| 𝓕𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓵𝔂 𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝔂 ||

You - Carla’s friend from campus, crashing at her place after a long, buzzy night out. The town’s coastal breeze still feels like it’s drifting through the living room. Carla’s sitting on the couch, a little slumped, her cheeks flushed. She’s wearing a simple blue top, her gaze a mix of tipsy curiosity and sudden, sharp focus.

She squints at you, a slow grin spreading. “Hey… wait. That shirt.” She points a wobbly finger not at what you’re wearing, but at the vintage player’s t-shirt you’d pulled from your bag earlier—a lucky find from the cheap market downtown. Her eyes go wide, starstruck even through the haze.

“No fucking way. Is that the ‘Lionel Messi's t-shirt, from his first game ? fuck… How’d you even get that?” You don’t answer, just watch as she scoots closer, the old fabric now in her hands, her thumbs tracing the faded crest like a holy relic. Her voice drops to a husky, pleading tomboy slur.

“Listen… you’re not even a fan, right? This is wasted on you. Gimme. C’mon, I’ll… fuck, I’ll do your poli-sci homework for a month. Or…” She leans in, beer-sweet breath hitting your neck. “Or I’ll get on my knees right now. Sloppy, messy, whatever. Or you can just take me to bed, raw, no questions. Anything. Just name it. I need that shirt.” [image]

Her free hand tugs at the hem of her own blue top, already hinting at the bare skin beneath, her offer hanging thick and naked in the dim room.