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Eric leaned back on his hands, letting his body relax into the grass beneath him after the intensity of training. The sun was high in the Barcelona sky, warming his outstretched legs and making him squint.

Joan made another difficult save and Eric let out a whoop. 

“Is that a goalkeeper or a cat?” he shouted across the pitch. Joan looked over at him and grinned, his eyes disappearing in the smile, further proving Eric’s point.

Over the past week, Joan had taken to staying late after training to practice additional saves—harder ones, from faster balls and on tighter angles. The derby against Espanyol wasn’t for several weeks, but Joan was starting his preparations now, determined to keep a clean sheet against his old club.

So Eric had taken to staying back with him, watching him make his saves, cheering him on. Supporting his friend.

“Why do you always stay, Eric?” Joan had asked him with a laugh after the second day. “You really don’t have to.”

“Moral support,” Eric had replied with a shrug. To enjoy the view, he didn’t say out loud.

Not that it was the only reason—he really did like to watch Joan work. Every day this week, he’d left training completely amazed at his goalkeeping ability, at how normal he made the most challenging saves look.

But yeah, also because Joan was nice to look at: the way his arms and shoulders flexed beneath his shirt as he stretched himself across the goal to reach for the ball, the way he moved with such ease once he landed from each leap…

But he really shouldn’t let himself think like that about his friend.

They’d known each other since their Spanish youth team days, back when they were just two kids who loved football and that was all that mattered. And then professional football made life a lot more complicated and they didn’t exactly lose touch—their footballing paths just slowly diverged. But Eric never forgot about the tall, gangly keeper with a smile so infectious his cheeks would hurt at the end of each day they spent together.

When they finally met again this past summer after Joan transferred to Barcelona, the Joan standing before Eric looked very different from the one he remembered. Eric had gotten taller, sure, but Joan had gotten much taller, and he wasn’t so gangly anymore. He was broader, and his arms looked bigger, stronger—Eric had never thought of himself as an arms guy, really, but apparently he was now. 

But Joan’s warm smile was still the same one Eric remembered from before, and it was what drew him in just like it did the first time, and soon they were joking and laughing the way they had years ago. 

And Eric was so happy to be playing alongside his friend again, he tried to ignore how all the other, newer things about Joan made him feel. He tried to ignore the way his heart jumped when their eyes met and lingered in conversation, or the electricity that sparked when Joan’s fingers brushed against his as he handed him a water bottle, or the warmth that spread through his body when Joan pulled him into a hug after a match.

Because he was smart enough to realize he’d somehow developed a crush on this new Joan, but he wasn’t stupid enough to read into the tiniest interactions, and he definitely, definitely wasn’t stupid enough to act on them. Because they were friends, and friends looked at you and touched you and hugged you. It was all normal. 

Joan made his last save and tossed the ball back to the coach he was working with, who clapped him on the back and went to gather the rest of the equipment from the pitch. Joan walked towards Eric, pulling his gloves off.

Eric gave his back one last stretch before pushing off the ground to stand up, meeting Joan’s stride as he got closer. Joan threw an arm over his shoulder as they headed towards the locker room and the ground tilted under Eric for a second before righting itself.

“Thanks for staying again,” Joan said as they walked.

“Of course. You’re such a wonder to watch,” he said. “I don’t understand how you do it, just save after crazy save.”

Joan was quiet for a moment. “I just…feel like I have something to prove, you know?” he said eventually, his tone shifting, more serious. Eric looked up at him, silently encouraging him to continue. “After all the mess with the transfer, I feel like they’ll be looking for every little mistake in that derby, just so they can say, ‘See, he’s not even that good, he didn’t deserve to go to Barcelona.’”

“Joan, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. You’re a generational talent. You deserve to be here. Besides, who cares what they say?”

They arrived at the locker room then, and Eric pushed open the door.

“I played for them for nine years,” Joan said as they walked in. “It hurts, I guess, to hear them talk about me the way they do now. They used to be like my family.”

“You’re part of the Barça family now, Joan,” Eric said softly. “We protect our own.”

Joan was turned away from him, his shoulders visibly tense as he opened his locker, almost as if he was curling in on himself. So unlike the Joan Eric had seen on the pitch just a few minutes ago.

“Thanks,” Joan said, voice small. “I still want the clean sheet, though. I’m just trying to focus on that.”

Eric’s mind raced, processing the unexpected brooding that filled the locker room, not sure how to get the warm, cheery Joan back.

“If you keep the clean sheet, I’ll take you out for dinner,” he blurted. Then he snapped his mouth shut. He had no idea why he’d said that. Or why he’d made it sound like a date. It was just the first thing that came to his mind that might distract Joan from the Espanyol hate.

Eric felt a flush start to rise in his neck and prepared to take the offer back, but then Joan turned to look at him, the smile returning to his face. Not quite as big as usual, but it was there.

“Yeah? Somewhere fancy?”

“As fancy as you want, you just pick the place and we’ll go,” Eric promised.

Joan’s smile turned into a grin. There he was, his happy Joan.

“This is so much responsibility, I’ll have to think of a place that will really impress you,” Joan said, his voice teasing.

Eric laughed, though it came out more like a squeak, and turned back to his locker. He felt a flush rising to his face again, this time for a different reason, the idea of Joan wanting to impress him making him flustered. Even though he’d definitely meant it in a very normal, friendly way. Because they were friends.

“I’m sure whatever you choose will be great,” he finally said, forcing his voice to behave.

Joan gave his shoulder a squeeze as he walked past him towards the showers. Eric felt the heat from his hand linger until he got under the cold spray of his own shower a few minutes later, hoping it would reset his mind to its proper settings.

When he returned to the locker room, towel wrapped around his waist, Joan was sitting on the bench in only his joggers, elbows on his knees, scrolling on his phone. Eric let his gaze trace over the defined lines of Joan’s back as he walked past, as if in a trance. Then he dragged his eyes away, feeling guilty. It’s not like this was the first time he’d seen Joan without a shirt, and it wouldn’t be the last. It was better not to get used to looking greedily like this.

He opened his locker, hiding behind its door, and nervously pushed things around on the shelves, not even sure what he was looking for, just needing to busy himself with something. The shower had not cleared his mind enough.

“Did you see the message?” Joan asked.

Eric finally grabbed his clothes from the locker, slammed it shut, and turned to him. “What message?”

But Joan didn’t seem to hear him. He was looking in his general direction, his eyes flitting all over him, not quite meeting Eric’s gaze, landing somewhere a little lower, near his chest. Lingering there a beat. The air in the room felt too thick, all of a sudden, his skin too warm. And then Joan snapped his eyes away wordlessly. 

Eric tugged his shirt over his head with difficulty, his fingers shaking slightly. Nothing to read into, he reminded himself. He brought his attention back to what they were saying before Joan had gone silent.

“Joan, what message are you talking about?”

Joan swallowed and finally looked at him properly.

“Flick’s giving us a full week off for the holidays.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“Yeah. Restful.” Joan looked away again almost immediately.

Neither of them said more, each minding their own. Fighting through the tension in the air, Eric quickly finished getting dressed, grabbed his things, and headed for the door.

“See you tomorrow,” he threw out as he left, finally breathing properly when he got to the parking lot.

In the weeks leading up to the derby, Eric felt like he was going a bit insane.

He was performing even better than usual, playing every game with little rest because he was just that essential to Flick’s system. Suddenly he was captaining games—even if it was only for a few minutes near the end. Fans were chanting his name, even at away stadiums. He was proud of the work he’d put in to achieve everything he had, but it was still so much to take in.

And on top of it all, there was the tension he felt anytime he was around Joan. He had started teasing Eric more—throwing around nicknames like “Batman,” comparing him to his idols from Barça’s golden generation, saying he was the pride of Catalonia—and shoving his shoulder or ruffling his hair playfully every time. And Eric would respond with a giggle and his mouth would forget how to make words.

It was just as bad when they weren’t quite in close proximity, like during training. Whenever their eyes met across the pitch, he’d feel the blood rush up his neck to his cheeks, his face doing its best tomato impression against his will. And he was the first to look away, every time. He was just relieved none of the guys had picked up on his constant blushing, or, at the very least, they hadn’t commented on it. He wasn’t sure what he would do if they did. Probably try to disappear into the ground.

And then there was the concern Joan would show whenever Eric got fouled badly. He kept getting hit in the face by opponents, whether by accident or on purpose, which kept prolonging the original injury to his nose he’d picked up months ago. And every time, Joan would step away from his goal and walk over to check on him, leaning down to put a comforting hand on his shoulder or back before being ushered away by the referee and medics.

Once, back in the locker room after Eric had taken a particularly nasty hit during a match, Joan had beckoned him over. He’d cupped Eric’s face tenderly, his thumbs resting softly below his eyes, and looked his face all over, as if he didn’t trust the medics to check properly for damage. Eric stayed rooted to the spot, following the movements of Joan’s eyes, breathing suddenly very difficult.

“Are you okay?” Joan murmured, his eyes locked on Eric’s.

“I’m fine, Joan, really,” Eric breathed. “I’m used to it by now.”

“Okay,” Joan said, keeping his hands in place for another moment before pulling them away. “You just scared me this time.” He gave Eric one last long look, eyes full of concern, before turning back to his locker. Eric thought about that look for the rest of the day.

He figured the holiday break would be a good opportunity to stop obsessing over every little interaction with Joan. Maybe he just needed some time with his family and away from the team to remember how to act normal. But the universe had other plans.

On Christmas day, Eric was mid conversation with his sister when his phone buzzed. Joan had sent the team group chat a picture of himself next to his lit up tree, wearing a Barça ugly sweater, with the caption,

Merry Christmas!

A few moments later, his phone buzzed again, with another photo and a text message from Joan, this time to him only. It was probably just the same message he had sent in the group chat, copy and pasted to everyone he knew. But when Eric opened it, he found a selfie of Joan snuggling with his dog, with that endearing smile that made his eyes disappear. A completely different photo than the one in the group chat, as if this one was taken just for him. The message below the photo read:

Merry Christmas from me and Bella! Hope you’re enjoying your time with your pups and your family, Eric :)

Eric’s breath caught in his throat as he read it. This was for him. For Eric.

He tried really hard not to read into it. They were friends, after all, and friends were thoughtful with one another. They sent nice Christmas messages to one another. This definitely didn’t mean anything. But something unfurled in his chest all the same.

“Earth to Eric,” Alicia said, waving a hand in front of his face, and he looked up from his phone finally. “What’s more important than your beloved sister?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s just…a message from a friend.”

“A friend, huh?” Alicia looked skeptical. “I didn’t know you were talking to anyone these days.”

“Oh, no, I’m not—it’s not like that. We really are just friends.”

“I don’t know, Eric, you have that look on your face that you used to get whenever you talked about a boy you liked,” Alicia teased.

“Germana,” Eric warned sternly, “this is just one of the guys from the team. Let it go.” She was way too close to the truth, but having feelings for a teammate was stupid and embarrassing and he didn’t want to talk about it right now, especially not with his sister.

“Okay, sorry,” she said, raising her hands in surrender.

Eric realized then that he still needed to respond to Joan’s message. He got up from the couch, looking for his dogs. He wrangled them onto his lap and snapped a selfie with them, but his hair didn’t look quite right in the photo, so he deleted it, fixed his hair, and tried again. But he didn’t like the angle in the second one, or the weird face he’d made in the third one. 

The dogs were starting to squirm in his arms by now, and he realized he was spiraling. It was just a photo to Joan, who probably wouldn’t give it more than a glance. He snapped a fourth photo, tried not to look too closely at it, held his breath, and hit send. He followed it up with,

Merry Christmas, Joan! The pups say hi too. See you in 2026!

Then he put his phone down and forced himself not to look at it for the rest of the night. And he definitely didn’t think about Joan’s message at all.

The day they returned to training after the holiday break, Joan greeted Eric with one of his hugs. Eric froze at first, then relaxed into it, bringing his arms up to wrap them around Joan. Normal post-holidays hugs with friends, he told himself.

“How was your holiday?” Joan asked when he pulled away, just as Eric had started to wonder if he could stay there forever, enveloped in Joan’s arms, in the clean but muted scent of his cologne that he’d never noticed before but definitely liked.

Eric mentally shook off the thought and looked up at Joan, who was still holding him at arm’s length, hands resting comfortably on his shoulders. He was vaguely aware that their other teammates had started arriving, but everything was a blur around him. There was only Joan, looking at him expectantly.

“It was good,” Eric finally responded. “You know. Time with family, always nice.” He remembered Alicia’s unwitting comments about him and Joan and felt his face flush, as usual. “How was your holiday?” he rushed out, trying to draw the attention away from himself.

“It was great! My family’s Christmas is always a bit chaotic, but I’m glad I got to see my cousins,” Joan said. “But now it’s time to get back to work! Let’s win this derby, yeah?” He shook Eric lightly by the shoulders, and Eric laughed nervously.

Then Dani called him over from the other side of the locker room, and Joan dropped his hands from Eric’s shoulders, and the moment broke.

The warm undercurrent to his and Joan’s interactions that had been present before the holiday break remained throughout the week, though muted. Everyone was locked in on preparations for the Espanyol derby. The match was always a heated one, but this time doubly so with the tensions over Joan’s transfer, so they were all determined to give their best—especially Eric. Now that he knew just how much the vitriol from Espanyol’s fans was affecting Joan, he wanted to do his part to help take some of the heat off. So he tried to just focus on football, even though there was still a very tall, very smiley keeper occupying a space in the back of his mind.

On the day of the match, minutes before they were supposed to head up to the pitch to warm up, Eric found Joan sitting alone on the locker room bench, staring at nothing, brows furrowed, leg bouncing.

“Joan, we’re about to head out,” he said gently.

Joan nodded but stayed seated, his eyes still far away.

“Hey,” Eric said, “are you feeling okay?”

“What?” Joan said, delayed, as if startled. “Oh, yeah. Just a little bit nervous. Big game.”

“Hey, look at me,” Eric said, and Joan obeyed, his eyes wide as they gazed into Eric’s. “You’ve been preparing for weeks, you’re going to kill it tonight. You’re one of the best goalkeepers in the world. They can’t take that away from you, no matter what they say. Now let’s get out there and show them what they’re missing, yeah?”

As he spoke, Eric’s voice felt the steadiest it ever had around Joan. Joan’s expression relaxed slightly.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, his gaze back on planet earth. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Vamos, Joan!” Eric yelled enthusiastically, smacking Joan on the back a few times, and they walked out towards the tunnel together.

The match was shambolic despite their best efforts, Espanyol’s offense breaking through and coming close to scoring again and again. But every time they did, Joan stood his ground, protecting his goal from shot after shot.

By the end of the match, he had put on a show. He’d made saves so ridiculous Eric’s jaw was on the ground at one point as he watched. When the referee finally blew the whistle, with Barcelona winning 2-0 and Joan taking the MVP, Eric looked over at his grinning goalkeeper, and his heart swelled with pride.

When Joan finally came to find him, he leaned down and pulled him into a hug so tight Eric almost couldn’t breathe.

“We did it,” Joan said in his ear.

Eric pulled away just enough to look Joan in the eyes. “You did it,” he said, his voice laced with an emotion he didn’t want to examine closely. Joan smiled up to his eyes and pulled Eric back into the hug. The rest of their teammates joined them then, turning it into a group hug, heaping congratulations on Joan until Raphinha ushered them towards the tunnel.

As they walked off the pitch, Joan nudged Eric’s shoulder.

“Can’t wait for that fancy dinner you promised me,” he said, his voice light, teasing.

Right. The dinner that Eric was hoping Joan would forget about—not because he didn’t want to take him out for the meal, but because he didn’t trust himself to behave normally around him in a setting as intimate as that. He was barely keeping it together as it was, when most of what they did together was trainings and the occasional outing with their teammates.

A dinner just the two of them? That was scary new territory.

But he’d promised Joan and he wasn’t going to break that promise when he was so happy and proud of his clean sheet.

“Oh, yeah,” Eric said with a nervous laugh. “You definitely earned it. We’ll go whenever you want.”

“How about tomorrow night?” Joan asked. “Since we have the day off.”

Tomorrow night? That was just so soon. Barely gave Eric time to psych himself up. But it made perfect sense. It was their day off, and then they’d be jetting off to Saudi for the Supercopa the day after, so really tomorrow was their chance.

Eric must have hesitated a beat too long, because before he could say anything, Joan said, “Unless you already have plans tomorrow? No worries, we can find another time—”

“No, no, tomorrow is good! Just, you know, let me know when you decide where you want to go.”

“Oh, I already know where I want you to take me,” Joan said, almost mischievously.

“You do?” 

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it ever since we made the deal and I think I have just the place,” he said. And here Eric was hoping the man might forget.

“Okay, where are we going?”

“Oh, no, I’m not telling you now. You’ll find out when we get there.” 

“But—” Eric sputtered, “It’s my clean sheet dinner for you! You have to at least tell me where I’m taking you!”

“No,” Joan said simply. “And I’m driving, too.”

“What? No, that’s—”

“Sorry, but it’s been decided,” Joan said, shrugging innocently, as if it was out of his hands.

They reached the locker room then, pausing in front of the door.

“So,” Joan said, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 8?”

“Sure,” Eric said, eyes wide. “Sounds good.”

“Cool, it’s a date!”

Eric laughed nervously at the joke, and Joan pushed the door open and went in, leaving him standing in the hallway wondering what the hell just happened.

Eric let out a frustrated groan and sat down on the floor, burying his hands in his hair. Shirts lay discarded around him, like the closet had exploded. Joan was going to be here to pick him up in thirty minutes, and he still couldn’t decide what to wear.

Which was stupid, because it so didn’t matter what he wore. Joan definitely wouldn’t care. So why was he sitting there paralyzed, unable to pair a shirt with some pants and get on with it?

He huffed and picked up his phone. He didn’t have time to examine the anxiety right now—he needed to make a decision. Or someone to make a decision for him.

He FaceTimed Ferran, who picked up on the second ring, making a face at him through the screen.

“What do you want?” he asked in a false annoyed tone that Eric was used to.

Somewhere off camera, Eric heard Pedri say, “Ferri, be nice!”

Ferran rolled his eyes and turned back to Eric.

“What’s going on, man?” he said in his normal voice.

“I need your fashion brain for a minute,” Eric said with a defeated sigh. “Can you help me pick out an outfit?”

“For what?”

“I promised Joan I’d take him out for dinner if he got the clean sheet against Espanyol,” he mumbled.

Ferran’s eyes lit up. “Amor, are you hearing this?” he shouted towards his left. “Eric and Joan are going on a date!”

“Finally!” Pedri shouted back, still off camera.

“Wait—no—it’s not a date!” Eric sputtered, but Ferran only wiggled his eyebrows at him. “I swear!”

“Yeah, right. I’ve seen the way you guys look at each other.”

What? That didn’t even make any sense. There wasn’t a “way” that they looked at each other.

“No—Ferran! I don’t have time for this right now! Joan is going to be here in half an hour and I still don’t have an outfit picked out! You need to help me!”

“Awww, you want to look nice for your date, I got you,” Ferran said, and Eric wished he was here in person so he could smack him upside the head.

“Okay, fine, whatever you need to believe.” Arguing with Ferran was pointless anyway.

“Wear a black shirt,” Ferran said simply. “You look great in black. And your dark jeans. They make your ass look nice. He’ll swoon as soon as you open that door.”

“Hey, why are you looking at my ass? You have a boyfriend and also what the fuck?” Eric demanded.

“Calm down, it’s not like I’m checking you out. I’m just being a good friend. Appreciating your outfits even though you clearly don’t think that hard about them unless it’s for Joan. Aren’t you glad I noticed?”

“Whatever,” Eric grumbled. “You can’t just tell me to wear a black shirt, Ferran. Half the shirts in my closet are black.”

Ferran sighed, and they went through each of his shirts, one by one, before settling on a t-shirt and collared jacket combo—both black, of course.

“Okay, now, glasses or no glasses?” Eric asked.

“Definitely glasses,” Ferran said, not even pausing to consider it. “I know you have this whole Batman thing going these days, but they make you look like Clark Kent. Very handsome.”

Eric flipped him off and put the phone down to change, leaving Ferran talking in the background.

“Now don’t forget, just be yourself, he definitely already likes you so you don’t have to worry about that…”

Again, what? Why did Ferran keep saying that? Not that it was relevant since this was not a date, but his head spun silently at the suggestion that Joan might have feelings for him, too. Then he shook it off because clearly Ferran was just being his annoying self and Eric was stressed enough about this as it was without adding any unnecessary factors. This dinner was just a nice thing he was doing to celebrate his friend’s achievement and that was that.

He pulled the jacket on and picked the phone back up, Ferran still going on about advice for his Not Date.

“Hold the door open for him, pull his chair out, you know—” he cut himself off when he saw Eric back in frame, now dressed, his glasses on. “Oh, que guapoooo,” he teased, and Eric blushed a little. “Let’s see the full outfit.”

Eric flipped the camera around and held his phone up for a full length mirror shot.

“You look great, tío,” Ferran said. “Amor, come tell Eric he looks nice!” he called.

A few moments later, Pedri’s head appeared above Ferran’s on screen, peering at the camera. “You look very nice,” he confirmed.

“Thank you for your help,” Eric said, genuinely grateful Ferran had rescued him despite his antics.

“No problem,” Ferran said. “Now, don’t forget to use prote—”

“I’m hanging up now!” Eric yelled over him and ended the call. How he’d managed to end up with friends like these he wasn’t sure.

He checked the time. He had a few more minutes until Joan got there. He picked out shoes, deciding on black and white sneakers, then stepped into the bathroom to fix his hair one last time.

At 7:58pm, just as he was spritzing cologne onto his neck, the doorbell rang.

Early, he thought. Hot. Then, Bad, he reprimanded himself.

He ran down the stairs two at a time, not wanting to keep the man waiting, and opened the door.

Joan stood on the other side in an intricately knit cream sweater and light blue jeans, his hands shoved into the pockets, nibbling at his lip. If Eric didn’t know better, he’d say he looked nervous.

“Eric,” Joan breathed, a smile brightening his face, and he went in for a hug.

Oh, sure, Eric thought as his arms came up around Joan’s back. The clean scent of his cologne washed over him as he inhaled, as dizzying as it was last time. The hug lasted just a beat too long, and then Joan pulled away, and Eric missed the feeling immediately.

“Ready to go?” Joan asked, and Eric nodded. He pulled the front door closed behind him and they walked towards Joan’s car. 

“So, where are we going?” Eric tried as Joan pulled away from his house.

“You’ll see,” Joan said, then changed the subject. Resigning himself to the surprise, Eric went along with it.

The drive went by in light conversation—how they’d each spent their day off, the things they were looking forward to exploring in Jeddah during the Supercopa trip. After about twenty minutes on the road, Joan pulled into a parking spot.

“Okay,” he announced, “we’re here.”

When they got out of the car, Eric saw that they were in a quiet part of Barcelona untouched by the chaos of tourism. Regular people walked past under the glow of the streetlights, running errands or heading home from work. An older man stepped out of a convenience store across the street and lit a cigarette, leaning against his storefront.

Joan led them towards what looked like a classic Italian restaurant. Through the big window at the front, Eric could see tables covered in red gingham cloth, surrounded by wrought iron chairs under warm lighting. It looked far from the upscale spot Eric had expected Joan to choose for his “fancy dinner,” but he was clearly excited as he held the door open for him, ushering him in.

They were seated near the back, in an alcove that was small, intimate really, but it granted them some privacy. They ordered quickly, both going for lighter pastas that should not, in theory, upset the team nutritionist too much. 

“So,” Joan said with a twinkle in his eye after the waiter left, “I bet you’re wondering why we’re here.”

“A little bit, yeah,” Eric said with a laugh. “I thought you would go for something…fancier.”

“It’s fancy to me,” Joan said defensively, then hesitated a beat. “This is the place my family brought me to the day I signed my first contract with Espanyol.”

“Oh.” 

This was the big surprise? He’d wanted to celebrate his clean sheet by going back to…a place that reminded him of his old club? A rival club? The Barcelonista in Eric tried not to feel indignant and failed.

It must have shown on his face, because Joan said, “No, no, just…listen for a second.” Eric nodded for him to continue. “This place used to symbolize the start of my career at Espanyol, yes, but now I want it to symbolize the start of my career at Barça. I know I’ve been around on the team for several months now, but it felt like playing against and beating my old team was an important part of finally moving on. So now that it’s over, I wanted to come back here to celebrate the beginning of a new chapter. The Joan es blaugrana chapter.

“And I wanted you here with me,” Joan added, “to be a part of the fresh start. You’ve been there for me since day one, and you’ve helped me feel at home on this new team in a way nobody else has. There’s nobody I’d rather celebrate this new chapter with.”

By the time he’d finished speaking, Joan was looking at Eric with such an intensity it was difficult to breathe. Eric felt moved by the idea of Joan wanting to bring him specifically along to create a new memory that was clearly so important to him.

“Thank you,” Eric said, voice barely above a whisper, “for sharing this moment with me.”

Joan’s smile in response was small, but somehow infinitely sweeter than any other smile he’d ever thrown Eric’s way.

Eric’s throat felt dry, and he reached for his glass of water. Joan did the same at the same time, reaching for the glass next to Eric’s, and their fingers brushed, just barely. But heat shot up Eric’s arm all the same, and he gulped the water down as he tried to ignore it.

The waiter appeared then, setting their plates down before them and breaking the tension.

As they ate, they reminisced about their youth team days, because it just felt like that kind of night. They laughed about their teenage antics, sneaking out of hotel rooms to get up to no good, wondered where some of their teammates had ended up after giving up football, and rehashed their lifelong debate over which players were the coaches’ favorites.

Eric shifted in his seat as they talked, readjusting his position in the small space, and his leg landed against Joan’s unintentionally. But Joan didn’t move away, continuing to speak as if nothing was happening. The sensation of Joan’s leg pressed against his was overwhelming, every nerve ending suddenly on fire. And for a moment Eric didn’t move either. He didn’t want to move. 

Ferran’s voice rose unbidden in his mind. He definitely already likes you.

He willed the ridiculous thought away and forced himself to shift his leg so that it was no longer pressed against Joan’s, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. 

He tried to focus back on the conversation. They’d moved on to talking about their families, and Joan was asking him about what it was like growing up with his sister.

Joan watched him intently as he spoke, eyes sparkling under the lamplight, never leaving his except to take another bite of his food. The rest of the room faded away. There was only them in the little alcove they were tucked into.

Breathing was starting to be difficult for Eric again. He could barely think with Joan’s eyes on him like that. He was pretty sure he was bright red but hoped the low lighting hid at least some of it. 

He cut his answer to Joan’s question short, even though he had much more he could say about Alicia, and turned it back to Joan, asking about his brother. He used the opportunity to look away, catch his breath, clear his head, return to the moment. Or maybe get himself out of the moment for a little bit. He didn’t even know anymore.

The waiter arrived, startling him, and cleared their now empty plates.

They decided to share a dessert because what the hell, this was a celebration dinner after all. Their conversation faded as they dug in, a pleasant silence settling into their alcove. As Eric put another spoon of tiramisu into his mouth, he looked up to find Joan watching him again, an odd look in his eyes.

“What?” he asked. “Did I get some on my face?” He reached for the napkin in his lap.

“Oh no, no,” Joan said. “Nothing on your face. It’s just…you should wear your glasses more. They look good on you. You look like Clark Kent.” His smile was crooked as he said it.

Eric flushed and looked down at the table to hide it.

“Oh. Thanks.”

There was Ferran’s voice in his head again, repeating over and over like a broken record. He definitely already likes you. He definitely already likes you. He definitely already likes you. Because that Clark Kent line was definitely flirting, right?

The waiter brought the check then, stopping that train of thought before it went too far. Joan reached for the check on the table between them, and Eric snatched it away.

“Hey! Don’t be ridiculous, this was our deal!” he said, amazed at Joan’s audacity. “You get the clean sheet, I get the dinner. It’s bad enough already that you ended up planning the whole thing and drove us here on top of that.”

Joan pouted. “Fine, but I’ll get the next one,” he said defiantly.

Eric was confused. Next what? They didn’t have any plans to go out again anytime soon as far as he knew. Maybe the next group dinner? He let it slide.

“Yeah, okay. Whatever.”

He paid and they left, and as they made their way through the restaurant towards the door, a big group of people walked in, gathering in the small entryway to wait for a table. Eric and Joan had to walk through the crowd to get to the door.

Joan let him go first, following close behind, and as they pushed through, he felt Joan put a steadying hand on his back—not quite on his lower back, but not not on his lower back either. Eric was strong and an athlete, and he thought of himself as someone who could hold his own, but he learned in that moment that he much preferred being manhandled and protected if it was by this particular 6’4 goalkeeper.

Joan removed his hand from his back once they were through the crowd and at the door, and Eric wished, for one absurd moment, that he hadn’t. The heat of Joan’s touch still lingered when they stepped out into the cool night air.

On the drive back, he mostly listened while Joan chattered cheerfully about small things. He sat back in his seat, throwing out a response whenever necessary but otherwise enjoying the sound of Joan’s voice and admiring his profile under the moving streetlights. It occurred to him that he was so much more gone for this man than he’d previously acknowledged.

Eventually, Joan pulled up in front of Eric’s house and parked, still talking, Eric still listening. He trailed off after a while, and they just sat there, turned towards one another, neither of them moving. Eric suddenly didn’t want the night to be over.

Then Joan leaned over to take his hand gently, bracing his elbow on the console between them. Eric let him, waiting to see what he would do.

“Thank you for dinner tonight,” Joan said softly. “I had a lot of fun.”

Eric looked up at him through his lashes, breath caught in his throat.

“Of course, you deserved it,” Eric managed, some part of him still upholding the silly pretense that this was still about the clean sheet, even though it had stopped being that way to him about halfway through his pasta.

Their gazes remained locked, and how had Eric ever thought Joan’s smile was his favorite thing about him when his eyes twinkled like this?

When Joan still didn’t look away, Eric let his gaze drop to his lips. Ferran’s voice emerged annoyingly again in the back of his mind. He definitely already—

Feeling suddenly brave, Eric pushed imaginary Ferran away, hard, and reached up to press his lips to Joan’s, his free hand cupping his face.

Then he felt Joan stiffen against his lips and panicked, immediately pulling away, yanking his hand back from his face. Joan’s eyes were wide, his expression shocked.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Fuck, sorry, I—” he stammered, “I shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.”

Joan opened his mouth to say something, probably to ask him What the fuck, Eric, but he couldn’t bear to hear it.

“I’m gonna go now. Thanks for the ride,” Eric said before Joan could say anything, and he got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and hurried towards his front door.

His fingers shook as he unlocked it and let himself in, closing the door and leaning against it, throwing his head back and hitting it against the wood.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

How had he even let himself entertain the possibility that Joan might like him too? Why had he ever listened to Ferran? Ferran was annoying and overly romantic and thought everyone could have a love story like his and Pedri’s while the rest of them lived in the real world, where teammates were not in love with each other. At least not mutually.

Eric laughed bitterly to himself. He could have had a nice, normal night with his friend celebrating their victory over their rival team, but he had to go and ruin it by trying to kiss him when he clearly did not want that.

This is what he got for reading into the smallest interactions that should have meant nothing. This is what he got for acting like a lovesick fool. Now he’d fucked up one of his closest friendships on the team and he still had to face the man tomorrow and for the rest of the season and possibly the rest of their lives.

Great job, Eric, his own voice said cruelly in his head.

Eric didn’t sleep much that night, tossing and turning and replaying every minute of the dinner and the kiss and the kiss and the kiss. Soon, daylight started to filter in through his curtains, and his alarm went off.

He sat up and groaned. He was not ready to face the day, and he was especially not ready to face Joan.

But they had a morning training session and then the flight to Saudi and then three to seven interrupted days of team bonding ahead of them.

What joy.

He arrived at training later than usual, hoping more of his teammates would be there by the time he got to the locker room so they could distract him and he wouldn’t have to interact much with Joan.

He walked in and headed straight for his locker. As he put his things down, Ferran walked over to him, a mischievous look on his face.

“Soooo, Eric,” he said, voice teasing, “how was…” He trailed off when Eric gave him a look and shook his head slightly. “Oh,” Ferran said, his voice lower now. “I’m sorry it didn’t go well. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really. Can you just please run interference with Joan?” Eric pleaded quietly. “He probably doesn’t want to talk to me either anyway, but I don’t know how to act around him anymore and I don’t want the rest of the guys to think anything is up.”

“Of course,” Ferran replied, thankfully not pushing him further.

At least it was easy to avoid each other during the training session. The goalies were doing their own drills today, so they ended up on opposite ends of the pitch. And then on the bus to the airport, Ferran announced he wanted to sit with Eric instead of Pedri, and on the plane he insisted that the three of them sit together, choosing seats far from where Joan was already settling into his.

Eric was starting to think that he just might get away with never speaking to Joan again until he got up to his hotel room and found Joan trying to swipe into the room next to his. Great.

“Hey,” Joan said.

“Hey,” Eric replied tightly, and then the door unlocked to his swipe and he practically ran into his room, nearly slamming the door behind him.

“You good?” Dani, his usual roommate, asked, apparently having already let himself in.

“Yep,” Eric said, even though his heart was beating a mile a minute.

For the most part, the rest of the trip passed without too much awkwardness. Ferran, and eventually Pedri and Dani too, were always around to distract him or gently steer him away whenever there was a chance he might have to interact with Joan. When they won the semifinal, they were so on top of him in the celebrations he almost forgot Joan was on the pitch.

The problem came later in the week, on his birthday.

Flick had granted them a rest day, so Ferran had planned a little outing around Jeddah for the four of them. When they got back to the hotel afterwards, Eric felt the good kind of tired and happy for the first time in days. They went up to the makeshift team lounge, planning to play a couple rounds of FIFA before calling it a night, only to find the rest of the team and staff already gathered.

“Surprise!” everyone shouted when he walked in, and Raphinha brought out a cake covered in flickering candles. They sang happy birthday and Eric blew them out, and someone from the staff got to work cutting up and distributing the cake.

“Thanks, everyone, this is very sweet,” Eric said to the room. His eyes met Joan’s somewhere in the crowd, and he looked away quickly.

“Sorry,” Ferran said in a low voice once their little group had retreated to a corner of the room, “Rapha insisted that we do something with the team and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I figured if we kept it short and invited all the staff too you could avoid him and it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“It’s okay,” Eric said, “it’s really very nice of you all to plan this. I’m not gonna let one man ruin my birthday.”

“There’s the spirit,” Ferran said, clapping him on the back.

Still, they kept to the back of the room, chatting casually as various team members came to find Eric to wish him a happy birthday. It almost felt like the perfect ending to a pretty good day. Then Eric spotted Joan walking towards them, and their eyes met across the room, and he felt the panic rise in his chest.

“Guys, I think I’m gonna head up for the night,” he announced, standing up from his seat.

“Are you okay?” Ferran asked, concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just tired. Please thank everyone for me, but I’ll be up in my room.”

And with that, he left, taking the elevator up, trying to breathe.

About twenty minutes later, there was a knock on his door. He peered through the eyehole to find Ferran standing in the hallway, arms crossed.

Eric sighed and let him in.

“Okay, what exactly happened with you and Joan?” Ferran demanded as soon as the door clicked shut.

“The dinner just went really badly, Ferran. I told you I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, well, clearly Joan is feeling differently about it because he just asked me where you went and looked like a kicked puppy when I told him you’d called it a night. He’s actually been asking about you all week. I’ve had to get really creative coming up with new excuses for you. I get that you don’t want to talk to him or whatever but I’m getting a little tired of running interference here without even knowing what’s going on.”

“It was just…really embarrassing, okay?”

“What was?”

Eric realized he wasn’t getting out of this, and besides, maybe it would be better to talk about it with someone at this point. He took a deep breath, steeling himself to launch into the story.

“So, the dinner actually was just supposed to be a celebration for Joan’s clean sheet against Espanyol. It really wasn’t a date, as much as you or even I wanted to believe it. But he just kept looking at me, and touching me, and saying nice things, and I started to think maybe he was flirting with me. I wanted it to be true. I let myself read too far into things. And then I tried to kiss him at the end of the night and he stiffened up and he had this horrified look on his face and I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.”

“Oh, Eric,” Ferran said gently, “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, so. I’ve lost a friend and all of my dignity. But at least I still have you and football,” he said with a humorless laugh.

“Okay, look. This situation really sucks. But you can’t just avoid Joan forever. You guys are teammates and you’re gonna have to figure it out. And he clearly wants to talk to you. I have no clue what he wants to say, but maybe you should hear him out. It can’t possibly make things any worse than they are now.”

“He probably just wants to tell me to fuck off for good.”

“Maybe. But you can’t know that until you let him say it.” 

“Okay,” Eric said hesitantly. “But not right now. Right now we have a Supercopa to win. I’ll deal with all this after.”

“Okay. Do whatever you think is right. I just thought you should know that he came looking for you. But I can fight him off for a few more days until you’re ready.”

“Thanks,” Eric said.

Ferran didn’t bring it up to him again after that.

The airplane cabin was quiet except for the light snoring coming from the general direction of where their older teammates were seated. Ferran and Pedri were asleep next to Eric, Pedri cuddled into Ferran’s side. The trophy was…somewhere on the plane, probably in Raphinha’s arms.

The last two days had passed in a blur of preparing for and then actually winning the Supercopa Clasico. Beating Real Madrid to lift another trophy was absolutely exhilarating, and Eric couldn’t be prouder of the team. 

When they’d gotten onto the plane, everyone was still in great spirits, running on very little sleep and the high of being crowned champions. But once they took off and the lights were dimmed, they all started dropping like flies, crashing from exhaustion.

Unlike his teammates, Eric had managed to get a decent night of sleep and felt rested, so he settled back into his seat and pulled out a book, figuring he’d read for the rest of the flight.

He hadn’t even gotten through one chapter when a tall figure materialized in the aisle, hovering over him. He peered up through the low lighting to find Joan standing there. He crouched in front of him so that he was level with Eric in his seat.

“Can we talk?” Joan whispered.

“Really? You want to do this here?” Eric whispered back incredulously. “People are asleep!”

Joan sighed, exasperated, and pulled Eric up from his seat by the wrist. Eric let himself be led down the aisle towards the middle of the plane, not quite sure what Joan’s plan was but hoping nobody else was awake to notice them.

Then they got to the bathroom, and Joan yanked the door open, and Eric realized what he was doing.

“The bathroom?” he hissed. “This is worse! What if someone sees us?” Joan just rolled his eyes and pushed Eric inside, crowding in with him and pulling the door shut behind him. “Joan, this is ridiculous,” Eric said, keeping his voice low. “We’re not having this conversation in an airplane bathroom. Can’t you wait until we’re back on solid ground to yell at me?”

“Wait, what?”

Eric huffed. “Look, I’m sorry I messed everything up by kissing you. I’ve liked you for a while and then Ferran kept saying these stupid things that convinced me you might like me too, and you kept looking at me and touching me at dinner and it started to feel like a real date and I misread everything. I know I ruined our friendship and I promise I’ll leave you—”

“Eric,” Joan interrupted, and he snapped his mouth shut. “I wanted you to kiss me.”

“You—what?”

“Well, it was more like I wanted to kiss you. I’d been psyching myself up to do it the whole night. But every time I tried to flirt with you, you got so flustered or pulled away and you wouldn’t look at me, so I thought I was making you uncomfortable, and I gave up. But then you kissed me and I was so surprised I didn’t know how to react. And then you freaked out and left before I could do anything to fix it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And then you avoided me for the rest of the week. And Ferran kept looking at me like he wanted to kill me every time I tried to find you to pull you aside. I had to wait until he was asleep to finally talk to you.”

“Yeah, that might have been my fault,” Eric said with a sheepish laugh. “I thought I was sparing us the…awkwardness.”

Joan shifted in the small space and Eric was suddenly aware of how close they were, nearly pressed against each other. He looked up at Joan to find him gazing down at him, a hint of a smile on his lips. He brought his hand up to cup Eric’s face, his thumb tracing lightly over his cheek.

“I really like you, Eric,” he murmured. “I want to give this a try, as more than just friends. I want to take you on another date.” He hesitated, suddenly shy. “Only if you want to, of course.”

The roar of the plane went silent in Eric’s ears, and he was lost in Joan’s eyes, which held no sign that he didn’t mean everything he was saying.

“Okay,” Eric breathed, eyes wide, still not believing this was real. “I’d like that.” Then Joan broke into a genuine grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Eric finally let himself believe it.

They were still pressed together, the heat of their bodies having nowhere else to go in the small bathroom. Eric leaned closer instinctively, and Joan glanced down at his lips and tilted his head, his breath brushing softly against Eric’s cheek. Then Eric’s mind caught up to him and he put a hand on Joan’s chest to stop him, pushing him away.

“Absolutely not, Joan. We’re not having our first real kiss in an airplane bathroom. I’m not budging on this.”

“Fine,” Joan said, pouting, and Eric had to resist the urge to take it back. “But we’re revisiting this.”

“Definitely,” Eric said, a smile tugging at his lips. “Now let’s get out of here before people start getting suspicious.”

They left the bathroom one at a time, even though it didn’t matter because everyone on the plane was still asleep, and they returned to their seats as if nothing happened. Eric tried to go back to reading, but he couldn’t focus on the words in front of him, buzzing with a new energy.

When they finally landed in Barcelona and got on the team bus, Ferran—sweet, protective, ridiculous Ferran—loudly insisted on sitting together again, and Eric went along with it, not feeling ready to explain that everything was okay again. But then his phone buzzed with a message from Joan inviting him over for dinner tonight, and he smiled down at it a beat too long, and Ferran caught him. He glanced over Eric’s shoulder at his screen and gasped when he read the message.

“Oh my god!” Ferran shout-whispered. “When did you guys make up?”

Eric just shrugged.

“That one is definitely a date!” he said in another whisper, pointing at the screen and shoving Eric, who failed to hide his smile. “I’d better be best man at the wedding,” Ferran said seriously. “I basically set you guys up.”

“Ferran,” Eric warned, “I’m going to kill you.”

Ferran only cackled and started texting, no doubt telling Pedri the good news.

For some reason, this time, Eric didn’t agonize over what to wear. Freshly showered after the stickiness of the plane, he pulled on a white t-shirt, oversized and comfortable, and light wash jeans. And of course, his Clark Kent glasses.

On the drive over, he hummed along to his music, the only sign of nerves his fingers tapping idly against the steering wheel. 

When Joan opened the door, he welcomed him in with another hug, and this time they both lingered in it a while, Eric indulging in a deep inhale of Joan’s clean scent, Joan’s fingers grazing Eric’s waist when he finally pulled away.

Joan led him to the couch, asking how his flight was as if he himself hadn’t been the highlight. They sat down, and Joan started going on about the dinner he’d prepared for them.

“So, the food will be ready in a few minutes. The potatoes and veggies are already done, and then the chicken just needs to finish up roasting in the oven. Oh, and then for dessert, I picked up…”

Eric was barely listening, distracted by the warmth emanating from Joan’s body in the small space between them, the way his eyes sparkled under the lamplight of the living room, the shadows beneath his jaw.

“Joan,” he interrupted impatiently, shifting closer, and Joan paused, watching him. “This is all very nice, and I’m sure it’ll be delicious, but I actually couldn’t care less about the food right now.” Joan bit his lip, holding back a laugh. “Come here,” Eric said roughly.

He pulled Joan in by his shirt and kissed him. And this time, Joan kissed him back, his hand coming up to cradle Eric’s face as their lips moved together softly. Eric sighed into the kiss, finally allowing himself to savor Joan’s touch. 

A few long moments later, they broke apart, catching shared breath, their gazes not moving from one another.

Then Joan drew him back in and kissed him again, harder, more intense. His hand drifted down from his face to his neck, and he angled his head, deepening the kiss. Eric slid his tongue into Joan’s mouth and buried his fingers in his hair, devouring him, catching up on endless months of want. The kiss was heat and fireworks and Eric wanted him closer, closer, closer. Joan slipped his other arm around his waist, pulling him in, and Eric gasped into Joan’s mouth as their bodies pressed together.

Just as he was contemplating climbing into Joan’s lap, the oven started beeping, and they sprung apart breathlessly as if they’d just been caught. Their eyes met and they both started laughing uncontrollably. But the beeping persisted, and Joan pulled Eric up from the couch with him towards the kitchen, Eric resisting.

“Look, you might not care about the food, but I’m not letting my chicken burn,” Joan said with a chuckle. “We can pick this back up after dinner.”

They fell into their usual easy conversation as they ate, everything the same as before but more charged, the shared glances and brushes of fingertips lasting longer, casual yet intentional. Joan threw his head back to laugh at something Eric said, and Eric allowed himself to admire the view unabashedly, tracing the shape of the jawline and shoulders that were now his to caress freely.

They cleared their dishes and washed up together, then settled back on the couch. Joan pulled Eric into his side, tucking his head beneath his chin. They put on a movie that they continued to talk over, Joan’s thumb brushing over Eric’s waist distractingly the whole time.

There was still lots to discuss—what they were now, who would know, how they’d handle it all while also being teammates—but for now, Eric just let himself enjoy the feeling of being together without pretense. Of finally having Joan the way he’d longed to.

Eventually conversation faded into companionable silence, TV still playing in the background, and Eric thought again that he was so, so gone for Joan. But it didn’t raise any fear in him this time, only anticipation for what was next. He pressed himself closer into Joan’s chest, thinking that maybe ruining this friendship was the best decision he’d ever made.