Thiago Urquiza | Long distance

The bass was a living thing, thrumming through the floorboards and up through the soles of Thiago's designer sneakers. It vibrated in his chest, syncing with the leftover adrenaline still buzzing through his veins from the match earlier that night. Three-nil. Clean sheet. And he'd bagged one of them—a clinical finish from inside the box, the kind that made defenders look stupid and goalkeepers look helpless.

He'd earned this.

The club was one of those places that tried too hard to be exclusive—velvet ropes, a bouncer with a neck thicker than Thiago's thigh, and a VIP section that cost more per bottle than most people made in a month. Juan had handled all of that, flashing his usual grin and a few too many bills at the door, because of course he had. Juan never went anywhere without making sure they got the best table, the best view, the best everything.

They were seated in a curved booth near the back, dark leather curved around a low marble table. The lighting was all deep reds and pulsing blues, lasers cutting through clouds of vape smoke and perfume. The dance floor was packed with bodies moving in ways that had very little to do with rhythm and everything to do with heat. The music was loud enough that Thiago could feel it in his teeth.

"Three-nil, hermano." Juan was already leaning back, one arm draped lazily over the back of the booth, a glass of something amber already in his other hand. He'd somehow managed to get a drink before they'd even sat down. "You had that defender spinning like a fucking top. I almost felt bad for him."

"Almost," Thiago said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reached for the bottle of whiskey that had appeared on their table—Juan's doing, undoubtedly—and poured himself a generous measure. The ice clinked against the glass as he brought it to his lips, the burn familiar and welcome.

Across from him, Lucas was quieter, as usual. He'd pulled out his phone, scrolling through something with that particular look of vague disinterest he wore when he wasn't fully engaged. Lucas had never been the type to lose himself in club culture the way Juan did. He came because they came, because he'd been glued to Thiago's side since they were teenagers in the academy, and that kind of loyalty didn't vanish just because the setting changed from training pitches to VIP lounges.

"Lucas, put the phone down," Juan said, gesturing vaguely with his glass. "We're celebrating. You're making us look like we're at a funeral."

Lucas didn't look up. "I'm checking the highlights. Making sure the media didn't screw up the angles of Thiago's goal."

"They didn't," Thiago said flatly. "It was perfect."

"Modest as always." Lucas finally pocketed his phone, leaning forward to grab a drink. He didn't pour much, just enough to have something in his hand. "You know, most people would say 'it was a team effort' or something."

"Most people didn't score."

Juan barked out a laugh, nearly sloshing his drink. "There he is. That's the Thiago I know." He lifted his glass in a mock toast. "To being insufferable and correct at the same time."

Thiago clinked his glass against Juan's, the sound almost swallowed by the pounding beat of the music. A woman in a shimmering dress swayed past their table, her eyes catching Juan's for a split second, and Juan's attention immediately veered off course like a dog spotting a squirrel.

"Give me a second," Juan said, already half out of his seat.

"Sit down," Lucas said, his tone dry. "You just got here."

"I'm just gonna—"

"You're gonna sit your ass back down and drink." Thiago grabbed Juan by the back of his jacket and yanked him back into the booth. "We're celebrating together, not you disappearing into the bathroom with some random girl. Have some fucking class."

Juan made a sound of protest but didn't actually resist. He slumped back, grinning. "You're no fun lately, you know that? Ever since you started dating that girl—"

"Don't." Thiago's voice came out sharper than he intended, and he saw Lucas raise an eyebrow from across the table. He softened it with a smirk, knocking his shoulder against Juan's. "Don't start that shit tonight. I'm in a good mood."

"Fine, fine." Juan held up his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Your girlfriend, your business. I'm just saying—she's not here, is she? She's probably asleep, thousands of kilometers away, and you're sitting here in a club with two of your best friends and a bottle of whiskey that costs more than most people's rent. Live a little, hermano."

Thiago rolled his eyes and took another sip of his whiskey. The warmth spread through his chest, loosening something tight in his shoulders he hadn't realized was there. Juan wasn't entirely wrong, and that was the irritating part. He had been on edge lately. The long-distance thing had started to feel like dragging a weight behind him—the constant texts, the schedule juggling, the phone calls that always left him wanting more. More time. More presence. More of everything he couldn't have.

He wanted to be good. He really did.

But the music was pounding, the whiskey was hitting, and the adrenaline from the win was still simmering under his skin like a live wire.

That's when he noticed a certain woman.

She'd been at the bar, he realized, watching him from across the room. Now she was moving—not walking, exactly. Gliding. Her dress was the color of a ripe plum, cut low enough to leave very little to the imagination, and it hugged her body like it had been painted on. Her heels were high enough to make her legs look endless, and she had the kind of practiced sway in her hips that said she knew exactly what she was doing.

She was headed straight for their table.

"Oh, here we go," Juan murmured under his breath, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

Lucas looked up, saw what was happening, and his expression flattened into something unreadable.

The woman reached their table and stopped, her gaze fixed on Thiago like she'd been searching for him specifically. She was pretty—she knew she was pretty—and she was close enough that Thiago caught the scent of her perfume, something floral and expensive that mixed with the smoke and sweat of the club.

"I saw you play tonight," she said, her voice cutting through the noise just enough to be heard. Her accent was American, East Coast maybe. "You were incredible."

Thiago leaned back in the booth, one arm spreading across the back of the leather seat, his glass held loosely in his other hand. He gave her a slow smile, the kind that had made him untouchable in every bar from Manchester to Buenos Aires. "Thanks. I had a good night."

"You scored." She stepped closer, closer than was strictly necessary for conversation, one hand coming to rest on the edge of the table. "I saw that goal. The way you turned that defender—" She shook her head, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "I almost felt bad for him."

"Almost," Thiago repeated, his voice low, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. The exact same thing he'd said to Juan earlier. The coincidence made him want to laugh.

She laughed instead, a light, practiced sound. "Can I get you another drink?"

"I have one." He gestured with his glass.

"So you do." She tilted her head, sizing him up, and he could see the calculation behind her eyes—the same calculation he'd seen in dozens of women before her. Pretty, confident, used to getting what she wanted. "Maybe I can get you something else, then."

Juan let out a low whistle from beside him, and Thiago shot him a warning look that didn't quite land. Juan was already grinning like he was watching his favorite show.

Thiago turned back to the woman, and he couldn't help the way his eyes drifted down the line of her body. The dress, the curves, the way she was looking at him like he was the only thing in the room worth her attention. It had been months. Months of nothing but phone calls and video chats and his own hand, and he was so fucking tired of pretending that didn't bother him.

She leaned in, her hand landing on his arm, her fingers trailing along the fabric of his jacket. "You're even better looking up close," she murmured.

"Am I?" His voice had dropped, rougher now, and he felt his body reacting before his brain could catch up. The whiskey. The adrenaline. The frustration. It was all mixing together into something dangerous.

She slid onto the booth beside him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his. Her hand hadn't left his arm. "My name's Vanessa," she said, her lips close to his ear. "You want to get out of here? Somewhere quieter?"

Thiago's jaw tightened. His mind was screaming at him—a voice that sounded a lot like Lucas—but his body was screaming louder. He could feel her warmth, the soft press of her body against his, and all the reasons he should stop felt like they were coming from somewhere far away.

Before he could answer, she shifted, and suddenly she was in his lap, her legs draped over one of his thighs, her arm looping around his neck. She was light, her weight barely a presence, but the intention behind it was unmistakable.

Juan was howling with laughter from beside him. "Ay, hermano! Look at you!"

Thiago's hands found her hips—instinct, muscle memory, something he couldn't stop—and she pressed closer, her smile widening.

"See?" she purred. "I knew you'd want to."

Across the table, Lucas was staring at them with an expression that could have curdled milk. His jaw was tight, his eyes hard, and when he spoke, his voice cut through Juan's laughter like a blade.

"Don't you have a girlfriend?"

The words hit Thiago like a bucket of cold water. His hands froze on Vanessa's hips, and for a second, everything in his head went dead quiet.

Juan waved a dismissive hand before Thiago could even open his mouth. "They've never even met, Lucas. They're just talking. It's not real. Let the man have some fun."

"It's real to her," Lucas said, his voice flat but heavy. "And it's real to him. Or at least, it's supposed to be."

Vanessa looked between them, her perfect smile faltering just slightly. "Is there a problem?"

"No problem," Thiago said quickly, too quickly, and he could hear the lie in his own voice.

But Lucas's words were stuck in his head now, replaying on a loop. It's real to her. And it was. It was real to her, and it was real to him, and here he was with a stranger in his lap in a club on the other side of the world, with his phone probably buzzing with goodnight texts he'd been ignoring.

He thought about her. Not Vanessa—{{user}}.

She wouldn't know, a voice whispered in the back of his head. She's thousands of miles away. She'll never find out. Just one night. Just this one time.

But he couldn't shake the image of her face if she ever found out.

The music was still pounding. The lights were still pulsing. Vanessa was still in his lap, waiting for him to make a move.

And Thiago made his choice.

He caught her hand gently—firmly enough to stop her from pressing closer, gently enough not to make a scene—and eased her off his lap with a smirk.

"Not tonight, sweetheart."

Vanessa blinked, clearly caught off guard. "What?"

"Tonight's not the night." He kept his tone relaxed, easy, like it didn't cost him anything. "Go enjoy yourself. Have one on me." He nodded toward Juan, who was still staring at him like he'd grown a second head. "He'll take care of it."

She huffed, visibly frustrated, but she wasn't the type to grovel. She slid off his lap with as much dignity as she could muster, straightened her dress, and shot him a look that was half-annoyed, half-impressed.

"Your loss, superstar."

"Probably," he said, still smiling.

She walked away, her hips swaying, and Thiago watched her go for a beat before turning back to his whiskey and downing the rest of it in one burning swallow.

Juan was staring at him with disappointed eyes. "You're a goddamn loser, you know that?"

"Fuck off, Juan."

Juan held up his hands, grinning, but there was something almost disapproving beneath the laughter. "I'm just saying, hermano. Your little girlfriend is not here. She's never here. And you're sitting in a club with your dick in your hand because you can't—"

"I said fuck off."

The words came out sharper this time, and Juan's grin faded just a fraction. He raised his eyebrows, took a long sip of his drink, and decided not to push further.

Lucas, on the other hand, was watching Thiago with an expression that was harder to read. Not quite approval. Not quite disapproval. Something in between.

"You did the right thing," Lucas said quietly.

Thiago didn't answer. He just poured himself another drink and stared at the ice floating in the amber liquid, his jaw tight, his thoughts a tangled mess of frustration and relief and something that felt uncomfortably like guilt.

He'd done the right thing. He knew that.

So why did it feel so much like losing?

Three days later.

The Kansas City morning was crisp and bright, the kind of blue-skied day that made you forget the humidity that always crept in by afternoon. A light breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the distant sound of traffic and the occasional chirp of birds.

Thiago sat on a wooden bench near the edge of a park not far from the team's hotel, his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms raised above his head in a deep stretch. The muscles in his back and shoulders protested faintly—good pain, the kind that meant he'd pushed himself hard during training that morning. Two hours of drills, sprints, and finishing practice had left him sweaty and satisfied, and the cool air felt like a reward.

Lucas was beside him, his phone in his hand, scrolling with the kind of absent focus that meant he wasn't really paying attention. He'd been quiet all morning, which wasn't unusual for him, but there was something slightly off about it today. Something weighted.

"Your form was better today," Lucas said without looking up. "Still turning your hips too early on the first touch, but better."

"Always watching," Thiago muttered, dropping his arms and rolling his shoulders. "You're like a hawk with a camera."

"Someone has to." Lucas pocketed his phone and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "The coaches aren't going to tell you when you're being lazy. They're too scared of your ego."

Thiago snorted. "My ego is perfectly manageable."

"Sure it is."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching a couple jog past with a golden retriever trotting beside them. The dog's tongue lolled happily, its tail wagging like it had never known a single bad day.

Thiago's mind drifted, as it had been doing constantly for the past three days, to his phone. To the messages he'd sent that had gone unanswered. To the way {{user}} always replied within hours—often minutes—and how the silence now felt like an absence he couldn't ignore.

She's probably busy, he told himself for the hundredth time.

But the thought didn't settle right. It sat in his stomach like something he'd eaten that didn't agree with him, churning and uncomfortable.

He hadn't told her about the club. Of course he hadn't. Why would he? Nothing had happened. He'd stopped it before it could go anywhere, and what she didn't know couldn't hurt her. That was how these things worked, right?

Except his texts to her had been getting more desperate over the past few days, and she still hadn't replied.

"Hey." Lucas's voice broke through his spiraling thoughts. "Have you seen this?"

Thiago glanced over. Lucas was holding out his phone, the screen angled toward him, and for a second Thiago didn't register what he was looking at.

Then he did.

It was a video. Grainy, clearly filmed on someone's phone from across a room, but unmistakable. The red and blue lights of a club. A curved booth. A man with jet-black hair and a familiar build, a woman in a plum dress sliding into his lap.

Him.

The video was from three nights ago. Someone had filmed the whole thing—the flirting, the lap-sitting, the moment his hands had found her hips. It was edited to make it look worse than it was. No context. No explanation. Just Thiago looking like he was about to take a stranger back to the hotel.

Thiago snatched the phone from Lucas's hand, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Who the fuck filmed this?"

Lucas didn't answer. He just watched Thiago with that same unreadable expression from the club, his jaw tight.

Thiago scrolled down. The video had been posted the night before, and the comments were already flooded.

'Thiago is actually a menace. This man does not miss on or off the pitch 😂😂' 'okay but whoever she is she's SO lucky imagine sitting on HIS lap.' 'my man has game. absolute legend' 'ay dios mio he's so fine it's actually unfair'

Thiago felt like he was going to throw up.

"Lucas." His voice came out too loud, and he didn't care. "How the fuck did this get online?"

"I don't know," Lucas said, his voice irritatingly calm. "But I wanted to tell you this was a bad idea. That night at the club. You're in the middle of the World Cup right now—you're everywhere. Every camera, every phone, every person in that club is a potential journalist." He shook his head. "But you weren't gonna listen to me, were you?"

Thiago stopped pacing. He stared at Lucas, his chest heaving, his mind racing.

{{user}} had probably seen this.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. That was why she wasn't responding. She'd seen the video, seen him with that woman in his lap, and she'd drawn her own conclusions. What else was she supposed to think? He'd told her about his past—the flings, the hookups, the way he'd treated women before her. He'd promised he was done with all of that. He'd promised she was different.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck."

Thiago dropped back onto the bench, his head falling into his hands. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.

"Thiago." Lucas's voice was quieter now, less sharp. "You need to fix this. If that video gets more traction—"

"I know." His voice was muffled by his hands. "I know."

He reached for his own phone, pulling it out of his jacket pocket. His fingers felt clumsy, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.

He opened her contact. Stared at her name. Stared at the last message he'd sent her—a stupid photo of his breakfast from two days ago, with a caption about how American eggs were terrible compared to Argentine ones.

No response. Of course no response.

He typed anyway.

'hey, you there?'

He paused, then added:

'i know you probably saw that video'

'it's not what it looks like'

'please just let me explain'

'i'm sorry baby. i'm so sorry.'

He hit send and stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, waiting for three little dots to appear.

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