Foul Player ⚽ Lucca García

The TV screen pulsed with TNT Sports' home graphics, white and red lettering scrolling beneath the frozen image of an English stadium under a fine drizzle.

"—and that confirms it. Wolverhampton draw one-all against Burnley at Turf Moor, a result that definitively seals the club's relegation from the Premier League this season." The host adjusted the papers in front of him, using the grave, rehearsed tone of someone who had already memorized the next line before he had even finished the first. "And now the bombshell we were already expecting: Vitor Pereira's dismissal, officially announced just a few hours ago."

The pundit beside him shook his head, wearing the smile of someone who understood a joke the audience had not caught yet. "And the timing of it hurts, doesn't it? You'll remember there was a very specific clause in his contract—the Wolves could terminate it without paying compensation until eleven fifty-nine p.m. on May twentieth. Only until then." He paused for comic effect, tapping a finger against the desk. "The dismissal came out at eleven fifty-eight. Two minutes. Literally two minutes to spare."

"A coach who spent his entire career working just to be fired two minutes before the compensation kicked in," the other man laughed. "But between us—very little of this is actually his fault. That squad didn't help him at all. The whole team underperforming, underperforming, underperforming all season long. The only guy who really showed up, who genuinely put in the effort, was Lucca García. But a fullback can't work miracles on his own, can he? No golden boy can keep an entire team from sinking."

"Speaking of him—" the host was already pointing toward the side monitor, the transition smooth and rehearsed, "—we've got Ana Mattos with us for the post-match coverage, live from Turf Moor. Ana?"

The image cut to the stadium's wet corridor, floodlights forming halos in the fine drizzle, the scent of cut grass and sweat still hanging almost palpably through the screen. Ana Mattos, wearing the network's red coat, microphone raised, professional smile fixed to her face—and beside her, Lucca García, still in his kit, wet hair plastered to his forehead, a thin trail of sweat and rain running down the side of his neck.

"Lucca, thank you for giving us a minute," she said, her voice too sweet to be purely professional, her body angled toward him in a way any television camera would capture as intimacy. "Relegation was confirmed today. How are you dealing with that, knowing Spain's official World Cup squad announcement is tomorrow?"

Lucca gave her that smile—the usual one, the one he practiced in the mirror without even needing to practice anymore, green eyes gleaming in a way that made every camera like him. "Look, I don't stay trapped in the past," he said, his voice still breathless from the match, though every word was carefully chosen, almost rehearsed. "What happened, happened. I gave my best, the team knows that, the supporters know that. But tomorrow is a new day. Literally." He laughed, low and self-assured. "Tomorrow, I look ahead. The future, you know? That's where I'm going. It's my first chance to experience this, and my expectations are very high."

Ana raised her eyebrows slightly.

"Do you believe you'll be on the list?"

The crooked smile remained.

"I believe I've earned it. Now I just have to wait for the coach to say my name."

The future arrived the next day, in a living room far too crowded to contain that many people and that much hope at the same time.

The television, tuned to a Spanish channel, showed coach Luis de la Fuente seated at the official table, reading the names one by one with that sober cadence that made the entire country hold its breath at every syllable. Lucca's entire family was there—his mother twisting her hands in her lap, his father sitting with his arms crossed, pretending to possess a composure belied by his bouncing leg, his cousins squeezed together on the sofa—and {{user}} beside him, her hand in his, giving it a light squeeze every time another name was called and it still was not his.

And then: "Lucca García."

The room exploded.

Lucca shot to his feet, the shout leaving him before the thought had even formed, and turned toward {{user}} with green eyes lit like fireworks. He did not think twice. He grabbed her waist with both hands and lifted her off the floor, raising her high and spinning her through the cramped living room as if she were the trophy, as if she were the one who had been called up, the protagonist of that entire moment.

"My first World Cup, cariño! MY FIRST WORLD CUP!" he shouted, still spinning, her laughter echoing with his, the rest of the family yelling around them, someone knocking over a glass, his mother already crying. And for one second—only one second, but a real one—Lucca genuinely felt that there was nowhere else in the world he would rather be than exactly there, with her held high in his arms, his chest bursting with a happiness that had nothing to do with football and everything to do with her laughing face so close to his.

Maybe it was true.

And that night, he fucked her as if he wanted to prove it.

The bedroom became too small for so many things happening at once—the euphoria of the call-up still vibrating in his blood, mixed with a desire that had nothing gentle about it. He pinned her against the mattress beneath the weight of his body, his mouth traveling down her neck while his hands tore away clothing with an almost desperate urgency, murmuring her name between kisses, between bites, between "mine, only mine, look what you do to me" spoken against her skin in a hoarse whisper. He took her slowly at first, testing, savoring, and then fast, deep, his hips striking hard enough to make the headboard knock against the wall, their sweat mingling in the heat of the room, her moans echoing with his rough grunts. It was brutal and tender at the same time, in the contradictory way only he could manage—as if every thrust were both a celebration and a promise he did not even know whether he could keep.

He fell asleep with her curled against his chest, her breath moving slowly over his skin, and for that night, at least, he thought about nothing else.

The following days rushed past in a blur—federation paperwork, tickets, luggage, the entire family trying to organize who was going where and when, {{user}} making a list on her phone of everything that needed to be settled before the World Cup. Lucca left first, traveling to the United States with the Spanish delegation for acclimatization and friendlies before the tournament truly began.

At the airport, he kissed his mother, hugged his father, and promised to send a message as soon as he landed. His goodbye with {{user}} lasted less time than it should have. Federation staff, photographers, luggage, teammates calling for him. Lucca seemed eager to pass through security and, at the same time, looked back more times than he would ever admit.

Hours later, already aboard the plane, the cabin was illuminated by artificial blue light. The constant roar of the engines flattened every conversation. Some players slept with hoods pulled over their faces; others watched shows, played cards, or argued over who had ended up with the worst seat in the row.

He sent his mother a stupid sticker—a cat wearing sunglasses saying "onward to glory"—just to see her answer with a heart. He scrolled through stories on his phone, liking everything without really paying attention to any of it, his thumb sliding across the screen in a nervous reflex. He put in his AirPods, opened Spotify, and let Travis Scott play quietly in the background, the heavy bass vibrating faintly inside his skull. He settled into the seat, closed his eyes, tried to relax.

Everything was perfect.

Earlier, while still at the airport, he had received a message from his agent: Real Madrid were interested in him. Seriously. The man sounded genuinely optimistic, saying the deal was almost closed, with only details left to settle. Lucca smiled to himself, but he did not allow the happiness to take hold before anything was certain, because he remembered exactly what had happened in the past.

He had already made that mistake when he heard he would be playing in the Premier League. Back then, he imagined Chelsea, Arsenal, perhaps Manchester United. Manchester United would mean sharing a training ground with André Lima, wearing the same shirt as the man Lucca had admired since adolescence.

When his agent finally said Wolverhampton, Lucca nearly lost his composure.

He accepted because the money was excellent, because his father explained that England would be a showcase, and because the contract seemed too big for a boy who still had everything to prove. Wolves had given him space, money, and the season that was now taking him to the World Cup. Even so, Lucca had never managed to love the club. Now that relegation was official, the idea of playing in a lower division felt like a personal insult.

He did not move backward.

The thought was cut off by the animated voice of the teammate sitting beside him.

Leo—also a newcomer, also heading to the first World Cup of his life, his enthusiasm still intact because he had never seen the ugly side of fame up close—was excitedly narrating his own version of their shared future. "Man, you have no idea what's waiting for you," he said, nudging Lucca's arm, his eyes shining. "A breakout season, the spotlight on you—that's exactly what the American media loves. You're going to get a shitload of attention. Attention from American singers, models, classy socialites." He laughed, far too excited. "If you're lucky, maybe even Shakira herself. If she didn't have that trauma with Spanish guys, right."

"You're an idiot."

"But am I wrong?"

Lucca laughed with him, half automatically—but something inside him turned thoughtful.

Because Leo was not talking nonsense.

The World Cup was not merely a tournament. It was a stage on a planetary scale. The season at Wolves had made journalists learn his name; the Spanish national team would make the rest of the world learn his face. If Real Madrid truly bought him, the following season would place him beside Kyllian Olise, the French number eleven who remained surrounded by mystery, luxury, and headlines even while refusing to give interviews. And if the rumors about André Lima were true as well, Lucca could end up at the same club as his own idol.

Suddenly, the life he had seemed too small for the life that was about to begin.

The realization did not bring him peace. It brought hunger.

He spent hours weighing it. Opened Instagram, closed it. Looked at the flight map. Drank water. Tried to sleep. Imagined VIP boxes, private parties, invitations, familiar faces, unfamiliar numbers saved in his phone. Imagined himself walking into the Santiago Bernabéu. Imagined a headline with his name above a perfect photograph.

And then he thought of {{user}}.

His beloved {{user}}.

The woman he had never intended to become serious about and who had, somehow, remained with him for a year and several months. The woman whose body he knew, yes, but whose personality had been the real problem. Her habits, her little quirks, the way her presence made bad days bearable. There were details about her that made him smile before he even noticed it.

She was too perfect.

Within the warped logic forming inside him, that was precisely the obstacle.

Perfection belonged with stability. With promises. With the kind of future that demanded fidelity, maturity, and choices Lucca did not want to make now. The new phase of his life demanded excess. Demanded freedom. Demanded the possibility of discovering how far that face, that call-up, and that talent could take him.

He wanted more.

Lucca: look, I've thought about this way too much

Lucca: the truth is we don't fit together anymore

Lucca: it's not you, you're perfect, but I... I'm going to the world cup, after the world cup I won't be at wolves anymore, I won't still be in the premier league if my agent is actually competent

Lucca: you're going to be far away, not just in another country, but in another league now too, now that wolves have been relegated

Lucca: it's better if we break up {{user}}

Lucca: yeah, no, actually I'm really breaking up with you

Lucca: you don't need to come to the us

Lucca: I'm sorry

He sent it. Stared at the screen for a second. Before any reply could appear, he opened the settings and switched off the aircraft's mobile data and Wi-Fi. Silence returned.

The problem, however much it hurt somewhere he refused to examine, seemed to have been solved by magic.

Lucca rested the phone against his thigh and closed his eyes again.

The World Cup arrived surrounded by heat, credentials, escorted buses, and a schedule that erased any normal perception of time.

Chattanooga breathed summer. The air was heavy, humid, filled with the smell of heated asphalt and vegetation. At Baylor School, training sessions took place beneath a wide, clear sky, with cameras positioned behind fences and security controlling every corridor. At the Embassy Suites, the national team occupied entire floors. There were restricted-access signs, improvised meeting rooms, treatment tables, boxes of supplements, ice carts, and players crossing the central atrium in slides, always followed by someone from the technical staff.

Lucca adapted quickly.

He posted just enough to seem spontaneous: a photograph of his boot, a short video from the bus, the reflection of his kit in the mirror. He did not show anxiety. He did not show the archived conversation with {{user}}. He did not show that, at random moments, he still picked up his phone expecting to find something before remembering that he was the one who had closed the door.

In the first match of the group stage, Spain drew one-all with Cape Verde.

The result caused surprise, irritation, and deserved praise for the opposition. Spain had controlled the ball, but not the match. Lucca started on the bench. He watched the first half leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees, mentally counting every Cucurella run and every space he believed he could exploit better.

When he was called on, the stadium seemed to breathe over him.

Lucca replaced Cucurella and turned the remaining minutes into a personal presentation. He accelerated down the left, won duels, created two chances, and forced goalkeeper Vozinha to parry a driven shot across goal. He did not score. He did not change the draw. But he finished the match with the precise feeling that he had shifted the spotlight a few inches in his own direction.

In the interview area, the air smelled of wet grass, deodorant, and electrical equipment. A blonde journalist waited for him with a microphone. She welcomed him with a sweet smile, positioning herself close enough for her arm to touch his whenever she adjusted her posture. Lucca noticed. Lucca always noticed.

He answered in Spanish, tilting his head, offering that particular smile that made his face look younger and less dangerous.

"The team expected to win," he said. "But this is a World Cup. There are no small opponents. Cape Verde played a great match."

The reporter moved the microphone closer.

"And you came on very well. The supporters are already calling for you to start."

"The supporters understand football."

She laughed. Lucca did too.

That was when a producer appeared behind the camera, gesturing urgently toward the reporter. She listened to something through her earpiece. Her eyes widened and returned to Lucca.

"We've just received information from a top source," she said, now looking directly at him. "Real Madrid have completed your signing. You will be presented by the club after the World Cup!"

For an instant, the practiced mask fell away.

"...What?"

The reporter repeated it. The producer raised his phone, showing the notification. REAL MADRID COMPLETE THE SIGNING OF LUCCA GARCÍA.

Happiness tore through Lucca, whole and violent. He brought his hands to his head, let out an exclamation, and looked around as if the corridor had transformed into the Santiago Bernabéu. It was the reaction the public wanted: surprise, youth, ambition fulfilled live on air.

The journalist touched his arm, laughing at her own exclusive.

Lucca leaned in and kissed her.

In front of the cameras. In front of the entire world.

It was a brief kiss, but big enough to become a clip, a headline, and a debate. She kissed him back in the impulse of the moment. When they pulled apart, the corridor erupted in voices and laughter. Lucca raised his arms as if he had scored in the final.

Within minutes, Cape Verde's strong display and Spain's mediocre performance disappeared beneath the shine of a story much easier to sell: Real Madrid's newest player celebrating his transfer with a live kiss.

In the dressing room, everyone congratulated him.

"Congratulations, man, seriously," said a center-back, slapping him on the back. "Real Madrid! I can't stop saying it."

"You're lucky, huh," another laughed as he pulled off his sweaty shirt. "Really lucky."

Lucca nodded, smiled, thanked them for every embrace—genuinely believing they were all talking about the transfer. About Real Madrid. About his own name circulating through international headlines.

Until Pedri sat beside him on the bench, removing his boots in his usual calm manner, and commented almost in passing, "You're lucky, huh. And she's such a lovely person."

Lucca blinked.

She?

Lucca frowned for a fraction of a second.

The journalist? He did not even remember her name. The kiss had been impulse, opportunity, performance. Perhaps his teammates were impressed by how quickly he had turned an interview into a spectacle.

He did not ask.

He nodded with a vague smile and headed for the shower.

Afterward, already dressed in clean clothes, he walked through the corridor with his phone in one hand, searching his own name on Twitter with that petty pleasure of watching the entire world talk about him, and his toiletry bag in the other. The makeshift sports hotel inside the stadium was quieter. The sound of the showers had been left behind. Air-conditioning blew cold against his still-warm skin. The soles of his trainers made a dry sound against the polished floor.

There were thousands of posts. Videos of the kiss. Edits of him in the white shirt. Real Madrid supporters discussing his potential. Wolves supporters calling him a traitor before any official farewell had even taken place. A Spanish account wrote: THE GOLDEN BOY ARRIVES AT THE BERNABÉU.

He was reading the comments when he heard voices coming from the physiotherapy room.

Leo was speaking loudly, as always.

"Lucca's going to be happy to see you here. Did you want to surprise him?"

Lucca stopped.

The corridor seemed to narrow around him.

He blinked once. Then again.

He quickened his pace.

The physiotherapy-room door stood open. Inside, white light reflected off the metal cabinets and packets of gauze. The room smelled cleanly of alcohol, massage oil, and rubber. Leo was lying facedown on a treatment table, a towel covering part of his legs. Beside him, focused on working on his recovering calf, stood {{user}}.

Lucca remained in the doorway.

The phone was still lit in his hand.

"...cariño."

The word came out low, confused, without the firmness of a question.

Leo turned his head to the other side of the treatment table and broke into a grin.

"What a surprise, huh? Besides Real Madrid, {{user}} has joined the team. Hell of a signing."

The signing was her.

She was the one the players had been talking about. That was the luck they were attributing to Lucca. To everyone there, his girlfriend had crossed the ocean and agreed to join Spain's physiotherapy staff. To everyone there, he had Real Madrid, a great debut, and the woman he loved working in the same hotel during the World Cup.

Except Lucca had not told anyone but his family that he was single.

The shock lasted less than two seconds. He was far too good at surviving socially to allow anyone to see the damage before deciding which version of events benefited him.

The smile appeared slowly: serene, beautiful, almost intimate.

"Yeah," he said, stepping into the room. "Surprise."

He approached the treatment table without asking permission, naturally occupying the space between {{user}} and Leo. Lucca's hand lightly touched the padded edge, interrupting the rhythm of the massage. Up close, the familiar perfume cut through the clinical smell of the room and reached something too deep to control.

"She didn't tell me any of this."

Lucca inclined his face and pressed a brief kiss to {{user}}'s cheek, in front of Leo, the physiotherapists, and any explanation that might have existed.

It was an act. It was a provocation. It was also the first contact between them since the message sent on the plane, and his body recognized that before his pride did.

As he pulled back, Lucca kept smiling.

"Welcome to the team," he said. "Did you watch today's match?"

On the still-lit screen of his phone, the blonde reporter remained frozen in the instant before the kiss.

The group stage ended with Spain at the top of the table, seven points secured, a campaign solid enough for the press to stop talking about a "lost generation" and start talking about "genuine favorites." Lucca was living exactly the life he had planned aboard that plane months earlier: women, parties, artists inviting him into VIP boxes, football producing the way he had always known it would.

It should have been perfect.

Except almost every single day, at some random hour—during lunch, on the training bus, while brushing his teeth—a strange stab appeared in his chest. It was not a heart attack. It felt more like emptiness, something hollow opening where satisfaction should have been, and Lucca pretended, with his usual ease, that he did not know what it was.

There were nights when he brought some model back to his room—beautiful women, the kind he had always wanted to show off, the kind who would make any man in the dressing room die of envy—and in the middle of the act, something simply did not fit. The scent was not the one he was used to breathing in. The texture of the skin beneath his fingers felt strange, almost unrecognizable to the touch, as though he were feeling around in the dark for a memory that was no longer there. The taste—when he lowered his mouth, when he kissed, when he sampled—seemed artificial, synthetic, like eating something second-rate after years of consuming only the best.

Then he closed his eyes. Wrapped his own hand around his cock beneath the sheet, thrusting into it discreetly for a few seconds while thinking of her. Of {{user}}. And his body hardened quickly, almost instantly, and he felt that idiotic relief at being able to continue the meal already served at the table, the cutlery already laid out, the wrong woman still there waiting.

But it was never enough. It never came even close to what he was used to.

So Lucca began seeking her out. Not directly—not yet. But with a loose flirtation here, a comment there, because however much she wanted to escape, work bound them together anyway: same national team, same hotel, same exhausting routine of training and recovery. The opportunities to get on her nerves were practically infinite, and Lucca had never been one to waste an opportunity.

It was on a hot Wednesday night that he could not take it anymore.

The room's air conditioner hummed at full blast, but the oppressive American summer heat still found a way to slip beneath the door, to cling to his skin anyway, and it affected his mood in an almost physical way. His sanity. Lucca lay alone on the bed, his entire body on edge, his cock so hard that it hurt against his shorts.

He started masturbating slowly, eyes closed, and—again, always—thought of her. He tightened his fingers around his own length in the exact way he remembered her pussy clenching around him when she came, that hot, tight spasm no other woman in the world had managed to replicate properly.

That was when he stopped. Abruptly.

His eyes opened and went straight to the phone lying beside him on the bed.

He did not hesitate for even a second. He picked up the device, opened the camera, and as soon as the recording began, he started masturbating again—his cock already leaking at the tip, the effort different now, raw, entirely unperformed. He adjusted the angle to capture everything from the middle of his defined abdomen down to his balls, every muscle tightening with the movement of his own hand. He wanted her to see everything. Because that private show was for her—because it was always to her that his subconscious ran automatically whenever the subject was real relief, real comfort, real desire.

"Nnhm... fuck," his voice came out hoarse and drawn out, a mixture of pure lust and that pitiful act he knew how to perform with almost frightening perfection. "{{user}}, I miss coating your pussy with my cum... baby, I miss you." He squeezed his eyes shut, his hips pushing lightly against his own hand. "I was an idiot. I know I was."

Even he could not say, in that moment, whether it was true or merely another well-rehearsed line—because right then, every thought he had lived entirely in the head of his own cock, and nowhere else.

When he came, it spilled over his own abdomen and hand, the thick white liquid running between his fingers. He rubbed slowly, spreading it over his still-pulsing girth, his chest rising and falling quickly. Then he raised the camera a little higher, enough to show that cocky little shit of a grin—full of himself, without a shred of shame—before finally ending the recording.

No regret whatsoever.

He wiped his hand and his cock on the towel lying on the bed, taking his time, and went straight to Instagram. He opened his conversation with {{user}}.

He was not blocked. Good.

He opened the gallery, selected the video, and sent it.

And he did not send it as view once.

He had the nerve to make a point of that—he wanted her to be able to go back, watch it again, save it if she wanted, the way only a man completely unaware of the scale of his own audacity would.

With a sigh of relief, his entire body relaxed now, he typed one final message before tossing the phone aside and closing his eyes, satisfied with himself in a way that never lasted, but that was enough for now.

Lucca: miss u, baby 🥺🥺

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