Chapter Thirty-Seven
T he stadium is a thunderous sea of noise, waves of chanting and applause crashing through the stands as the final match of the season kicks off. The energy is absolutely electric - almost tangible - buzzing in the warm evening air, and from the friends and family box, I grip the edge of my seat, my heart pounding in sync with the pulse of the crowd.
Every chant reverberates through my chest, and the rhythmic stomping of feet makes the very ground beneath us tremble.
The players begin to take their positions on the field, their movements sharp and precise. I can’t help but think of how much they look like warriors preparing for battle. The roar of the fans swells, a wave of raw emotion sweeping across the stadium as the referee’s whistle slices through the chaos.
Santi is easy to spot among his teammates, his broad shoulders and confident stance commanding attention even in the frenzied atmosphere. He stretches his arms above his head, shakes out his legs, and casts a quick glance toward the stands.
For a fleeting second, I let myself imagine that glance is meant for me.
Beside me, Santi’s cousin, Elena, sits cross-legged, completely calm, sipping on what looks like sparkling water. Her dark hair is swept into a sleek ponytail, and she’s dressed in a chic cream blazer that somehow makes me feel underdressed in my jean shorts and team jersey.
“Breathe, Olivia,” she murmurs without even glancing at me. “He’s got this.”
I attempt to unclench my fingers from the edge of my seat.
“I’m fine. Totally fine.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up,” she side-eyes me with a small smirk. “ Relax . This is rugby, remember. It’s a game, not a gladiator fight.”
I shoot her a flat look. “Have you seen the way they tackle each other? It might as well be.”
She chuckles and leans closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“True. But Santi’s tougher than he looks. And trust me - those boys love the drama. A few bruises and a bit of blood just make the victory taste sweeter to them.”
“That’s comforting,” I mutter sarcastically, glancing down at the pitch.
As the whistle blows to officially start the game, the stadium erupts once more, the noise cresting to a deafening peak. Despite myself, my fingers tighten around the armrest and my heart races as Santi charges forward, the ball in hand.
The intensity is immediate, the pace of the game unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. From the first pass, it’s clear this isn’t just any other game. It’s a battle, plain and simple.
Santi is everywhere, a blur of motion as he calls plays with sharp precision, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the stadium. He darts through defenders like water slipping through cracks, agile and determined despite his significant size. All of his movements are fluid yet brimming with power, and I can’t help but marvel at just how skilled he is.
The thing is, he always seems to play well, but this… this is different. Every play feels like a high-stakes gamble, and Santi is the linchpin holding it all together.
When he breaks through the opposition’s line, gaining ground with an almost balletic grace, the crowd erupts into a deafening roar. I can’t help but join the others in the box and jump to my feet, clapping and shouting along with them.
Elena leans back in her seat, entirely unbothered for the time being.
“He looks good out there, doesn’t he?” she comments, a sly grin playing on her lips as her gaze tracks Santi sprinting across the field.
I glance at her, trying to focus on the game but failing when I catch the teasing glint in her eyes. My cheeks heat instantly.
“He always looks good,” I mutter, trying to keep my voice even.
Elena raises an eyebrow. “I meant on the pitch, but sure, let’s talk about how disgustingly in love with my cousin you are instead. Honestly, it’s almost nauseating.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off with a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over her heart.
“Oh, Santiago ,” she says in a mockingly dreamy voice, fluttering her eyelashes. “You’re so amazing, so perfect -”
“Stop,” I hiss, shoving her arm playfully, but I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “You’re the worst.”
“I know,” she beams, entirely unrepentant. “But seriously - I have to tell you, you’re absolutely glowing right now. You’re like a human floodlight every time you look at him. It’s kind of adorable, actually.”
I roll my eyes, but I wouldn’t be able to deny it even if I really wanted to. Watching Santi out there - commanding the pitch, doing what he loves - it does something to me. My heart feels like it’s simultaneously swelling and clenching at the same time, pride and nerves battling for dominance.
Plus, it’s so bloody hot.
Before I can respond, a gasp ripples through the crowd, and the sharp blast of the referee’s whistle pierces through the air.
My head snaps back to the field just in time to see Santi crumple to the ground, an opposing player sprawled beside him. The collision has been brutal - shoulder to ribs - and I feel the air leave my lungs as I watch him clutch his side, his face contorted in pain on the large screen directly across from our box.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, my hands flying to my mouth as panic surges through me.
Elena remains remarkably composed, though her body gives her away a little by tensing slightly. She sets her coffee down and leans forward, her sharp eyes scanning the field.
“He’ll be fine,” she says, her voice steady, though there’s an edge of concern underneath.
I’m not convinced.
“He’s not moving,” I say, my voice cracking as I grip the armrest of my seat.
Elena places a reassuring hand on my arm.
“Relax, okay? That man is built like a tank. I’ve seen him take worse hits and walk away like nothing happened. Just give him a minute.”
One minute turns into two, then three, and Santi still doesn’t get up. The medics rush onto the field, and my heart is pounding so loudly I can barely hear the chatter of the others who are speculating on what body part might be injured. The crowd outside has quietened significantly, and the players from both teams hover nearby; some kneeling, others pacing as Santi remains on the ground.
“What if he’s really hurt?” I whisper, unable to tear my eyes away.
Elena squeezes my arm. “Listen to me. If there’s one thing I know about Santi, it’s that he doesn’t go down easy. And even if he is hurt, he’s stubborn enough to keep playing just to prove a point.”
“Come on,” I whisper, barely able to breathe as I stare down at him. “Please, get up.”
As if on cue, I see movement.
Santi pushes himself onto his knees, shaking his head as the medics try to assess him.
The stadium erupts in cheers as he finally stands, rolling his shoulder with a grimace but waving off the medics with an unmistakable air of determination.
“See?” Elena says with a smirk, though there’s relief in her tone. “What did I tell you? Total drama king, and stubborn as hell.”
I let out a shaky breath, my heart still racing.
“That man is going to be the death of me,” I mutter.
Elena pats my hand. “Welcome to the family.”
I let out a weak laugh, my eyes still glued to Santi as he jogs back into position, his expression set and focused.
“I hate this,” I admit, my voice trembling. “Watching him get hurt, not being able to do anything about it. It’s awful.”
“I know,” Elena says. “But this is part of the world of dating an athlete. You never really get used to it, but you learn to deal. And hey - at least he looks good while being ridiculously dramatic about it, right?”
“He’s unbelievable,” I murmur, more to myself than to Elena.
She chuckles. “Mmmhm. Now, sit back and enjoy the rest of the game. Your man’s got a championship to win.”
The game resumes, and somehow - impossibly - Santi plays on as if nothing happened. It’s as though the hit had ignited something within him, and he moves across the field with an intensity that’s almost superhuman.
Each play is sharper, faster, more precise.
His voice cuts through the chaos, barking commands to his teammates, and they respond like clockwork, the rhythm of the game bending to his will.
“He’s a machine,” Elena laughs, her eyes wide as she watches Santi sidestep an opponent with the kind of finesse that should be impossible after the hit he took. “Does this guy even feel pain?”
“I don’t know how he’s doing it,” I whisper back, my heart still lodged in my throat.
Watching him out there - unstoppable and unyielding - is as exhilarating as it is terrifying.
The final minutes of the match are pure adrenaline. Santi intercepts a pass with a leap that seems to defy gravity, tearing down the field with defenders closing in on him from every angle. Just when it seems like they’ll pull him down, he offloads the ball to a teammate with a perfectly timed pass.
The crowd roars as the try is scored, pushing their lead even further.
“He’s playing like a man possessed,” Elena says, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s championship-level determination right there.”
As the clock winds down, the energy in the stadium becomes almost unbearable. Every second stretches into an eternity, the tension crackling through the air like static.
The opposing team fights desperately to close the gap, but Santi’s team holds the line, refusing to give an inch.
And then, finally, the whistle blows.
The sound is drowned out almost instantly by the eruption of cheers and applause from the stands. The scoreboard tells the story - they’ve won.
The championship is theirs.
I jump to my feet, joining the deafening celebration around me as the players on the field throw their arms into the air, shouting in triumph. Teammates hug and tackle one another, some falling to their knees in sheer relief and joy.
The atmosphere is electric; a thrilling, joyous combination of pride, exhaustion, and pure, unfiltered elation.
“He did it,” I say, my voice shaking as I turn to Elena. “They did it!”
“Of course they did,” she replies. “Did you think for a second Santi was going to let them lose? Not a chance.”
On the field, Santi is swept up in the chaos, his teammates pulling him into a massive group hug. His hair is damp with sweat, his face flushed, but the smile on his face is the brightest thing in the entire stadium as the camera’s all zoom in towards the team.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, declaring the victory and announcing the team as the champions. It’s all a blur as I watch the medals be handed out, my eyes glued onto Santi when it’s finally his turn to step forward and shake hands with officials, all exchanging congratulations.
The trophy is brought out, a massive golden symbol of their hard-fought season, and the team stand together and raise it up towards the crowd.
Cameras flash, confetti rains down, and the moment feels like something out of a dream as the crows roars louder than I’ve ever heard.
I can’t stop smiling, my hands clapping along with the rest of the fans, but my eyes never leave Santi. He looks up toward the stands, and for a split second, I think our eyes meet.
“You’re going to need to be ready for him after this,” Elena says, nudging me with her elbow. “He’s going to be on such a high. You might want to clear your schedule for the next twenty-four hours.”
I laugh, shaking my head.
“I’ll manage.”
As the celebration on the pitch continues, Santi is pulled into interviews, cameras surrounding him as reporters ask rapid-fire questions. The crowd begins to filter out of the stadium, but the family and friends of the players are allowed to head down and linger near the pitch.
Some of the player’s have young children who hurry across the field to greet them, and I watch them as I follow Elena’s lead, the adorable sight causing my chest to physically tighten.
Together, we weave through the throng of excited relatives, listening to the sounds of them speaking enthusiastically.
By the time we reach the side of the field, Santi is still in the middle of a group of reporters. His medal hangs around his neck, his green eyes bright with adrenaline as he chatters animatedly to two reporters .
“He looks happy,” I say, my chest swelling with pride as I watch him, his charm and charisma on full display even through his exhaustion.
“He looks like he’s just won the championship,” Elena teases. “Go on, Liv. Go say hi. You know he’s looking for you.”
I hesitate, glancing down at my outfit and brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. Before I can second-guess myself, I feel Elena’s hand on my back, giving me a gentle push.
Santi glances up from the crowd of reporters, his eyes scanning the group until they land on me.
His expression softens instantly, the triumphant grin on his face shifting into something more personal, more intimate.
Without a word, he steps away from the cameras, striding toward me with purpose.
When he reaches me, he doesn’t hesitate. His arms wrap around me, pulling me close, and he kisses me like we’re the only two people in the world.
The crowd around us fades into nothing but a roaring blur, and I lose all awareness of the cameras trained on us as Santi’s lips move against mine.
My arms loop around his neck, and I can’t help but smile into our kiss, feeling as though my feet aren’t even touching the ground.
When he finally pulls back, his hands remain firmly on my waist, steadying me as much as himself. His voice is soft but carries a weight of emotion that wraps around me like a warm embrace.
“We did it,” he murmurs, his forehead pressing lightly against mine.
“No,” I say, shaking my head and smiling up at him. “ You did it. You were incredible out there.”
He pulls back just enough to look me directly in the eye, his gaze steady and unflinching.
“No, Olivia,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “ We did it. You were here. That’s all I needed. You’re always what I need.”
My chest tightens, and I laugh softly, though I can feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.
“You’re going to make me cry,” I say, trying to blink them away.
“Good,” he teases, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. “You’re beautiful when you cry.”
“Stop,” I say, laughing despite myself, playfully swatting at his chest.
But he just leans in to press a lingering kiss to my forehead, his lips warm against my skin.
When he finally steps back, I notice the shift in his posture - his arm still securely around me, but his body turning slightly. I follow his gaze, and my stomach flips as I spot several large cameras pointed directly at us.
A whole crew of reporters is watching, some whispering to one another while others gesture to their cameramen, clearly catching every second of our moment.
I stiffen slightly, instinctively stepping closer to Santi.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, heat rushing to my face. “They’re filming all of this.”
Santi doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. If anything, his grin grows wider as he leans down, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
“Let them. They should know how proud I am of you.”
Before I can protest, he straightens, keeping me tucked under his arm as he turns fully toward the cameras. One of the reporters takes this as a cue to call out, her voice carrying over the hum of the celebrating crowd.
“Santi! What does this win mean to you?” she asks, microphone poised.
“It means everything,” he replies smoothly, his voice confident and strong as he speaks in Spanish to the reporters. “It’s been a long season, and I couldn’t have done it without my teammates, my coaches, and... my woman.” He glances down at me, his expression softening even as the cameras capture every second. “Olivia has been my rock this season. I’m grateful to have her by my side.”
The reporter’s eyes widen, clearly not expecting the declaration.
“That’s so sweet!” she responds, before switching to English, clearly unsure of how much I understand. “Olivia, how does it feel to be part of this incredible journey with Santi?”
I open my mouth, words completely failing me, but Santi squeezes my waist, his grin turning teasing.
“She’s a little shy,” he says lightly, also speaking in English now and somehow still making the small crowd of media personnel chuckle. “But she’s been here through everything. Tonight, this win is as much for her as it is for the team.”
I look up at him, my face still burning, but the warmth in his eyes grounds me. Even with the cameras flashing and microphones aimed in our direction, he’s completely at ease, as though this is just another moment between the two of us.
Eventually, he waves off the reporters with a polite smile, murmuring something about needing to celebrate with the people who matter most. His arm never leaves my side as he leads me back toward the rest of the family, his hand settling protectively at the small of my back .
As we walk, I lean into him, the adrenaline of the match and the attention swirling in my chest.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” I say, my voice half-teasing.
“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters without missing a beat.
I roll my eyes, but my heart is so full it feels like it might burst.
“That was so over the top.”
“What can I say? I like the whole world knowing you’re mine.” He pauses, glancing down at me with that boyish grin I can never resist. “And I’m yours, Olivia. Always.”