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Bojan was running late. On most days, he ran on a schedule; bus to school, bus to training, bus home. Today was off, today was leaning towards being one of the worst days of his young life. He forgot his umbrella at home, stood outside in the pouring rain for his bus to school. Spent the entire day wet and miserable, with his hair going in ten different directions, untamed as it tended to get at times. Training was the only time he felt normal, being on the pitch with a ball at his feet was the only time he felt like he had some control over his life, that he didn't have to be on someone else's schedule. He could shine out there on the pitch, at least until during the eleven a side match one of the defenders took him out and he spent the last half hour of practice in the locker room icing down a swollen ankle.
He misses his bus from the training grounds. There's another one a half hour later, but Bojan is tired and hurt and has been cold and wet all day. A walk across the city in the rain seems more appealing than spending a half hour sitting in it doing nothing just to spend another half hour on a bus. He's an athlete, even slightly injured as he is, he thinks he can get home before the bus can, thinks he can make it home in under an hour and take the hottest shower known to man before curling up in bed and making a can of soup and maybe calling his mom and telling her that he regrets this move to Madrid, that he wants to go back home to Barcelona and have her take care of him. He's sixteen and although he feels older at times, today he doesn't feel old enough to be on his own. His cousin Cesc is supposed to be taking care of him, but Cesc is barely ever home and sometimes Bojan likes it, likes having the apartment to himself, but today he misses his mother, misses her warmth and compassion and the fact that if he missed his bus she would be there to pick him up.
His walk is slow thanks to injury and the weight of his bags; his gym one filled with his gear and his school one filled with his books. His sweatshirt is heavy thanks to the rain and his jeans feel like they are made of lead, not denim, and the insides of his trainers squish with each step. He keeps his head down as he walks, hood covering his hair, but he's still so wet, water dripping off the tendrils of hair on his forehead. His focus is kept on the sidewalk as he wallows in his misery and he pays no attention to the alley he's about to pass.
That is until hands reach out and grab him, pulling him into the dark alley outside of the range of street lights. Bojan drops his gym bag as his hood falls back and he sees his attackers, boys just a little bigger than he is dressed in all black, with ski masks covering their faces. One drops down to go through his gym bag, one stands at the alley mouth watching to make sure no one notices them in the darkness, and the biggest one holds on to him, holds a cold steel blade against his throat. He feels it when he swallows, the sharpness cutting into his skin ever so slightly.
"You scream and I slit your throat." The voice is gruff and really Bojan would be lying if he said in the moment he was anything other than frightened for his life, so he just swallows thickly again, blinks his eyes in the rain and tries to fight back the hot salty tears welling in his eyes. The kid going through his bag is throwing shit around, dumping around his boots and his kit, and Bojan has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out when he pulls out the lucky Barcelona number nine jersey his father had gotten for him for Christmas one year. A fat tear rolls down his cheek as he watches the bluagrana be tainted with the dirty mud of the alley.
"Let him go." The blade cuts into Bojan's neck just slightly as both he and the boy holding him look up to see where the voice was coming from, another boy's figure on the fire escape. The boy holding him backs the two of them up more as they see the boy in the shadows; get glimpses of him as lightning crackles through the sky above them. He jumps from the fire escape and lands gracefully, all in red and black with a black cape fastened to his shoulders, a black domino mask obscuring half his face but leaving his crooked half smile untouched. His blond hair is slick with rain water and it should look absolutely terrible, but for some reason this kid doesn't look bad at all.
"Who the fuck are you? Get out of here, or we'll kill him, and kill you too." The knife is pressed closer to Bojan's throat and every time he breathes it cuts into his skin just a little more, just little nicks, but they hurt, and he is so scared that this is the last day of his life, that this is the way he's going to die and it'll be at the fault of this kid who thinks he can dress up like The Eagle when he's nothing but a kid.
"Shame. I really didn't want to have to hurt you." The kid shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly like dealing with some thugs holding a knife to a boy's throat is an every day occurrence for him and this is an actual winnable situation. Bojan closes his eyes tightly with expectations to die and with a sudden movement, the arms around him are off him and he can breathe, stumbling to rest against the dirty wall of a building. He opens his eyes again and sees the fight ensuing before him, the three on one fight of the thugs against the boy in the costume, but the boy is actually winning. The one that was going through his bag is bleeding from his nose, his ski mask lifted up so he can breathe and inspect the damage, the one guarding the mouth of the alley holding onto him. They look like scared kids just roped into this somehow, but the other one is different. He's still got the knife and he's swigging it at the costumed boy, trying to stab him but the boy is too quick. They move like a well choreographed dance, swinging and swaying with the caped hero always just a bit faster, until he pulls himself up onto the fire escape once more, swings his legs and lands his boots square into the attacker's face. The thug is knocked out cold and his two partners scramble out of the alley in fear, but the costumed boy just drops back down, goes about picking up Bojan's things and putting them back in his bag. Bojan's still against the wall, frozen in fear until the costumed boy returns to him, his smile bright and in the back of his mind he thinks he knows this smile somehow, not from seeing it in the papers, like The Eagle's or El Nino's, this one he remembers on a field of green grass.
"Who are you?" It's the first words he's able to get out as the boy hands over his bag, slipping it onto his shoulder so he has something to touch that isn't just ripping the mask off his face, to see who he is. As curious as he is, he's still polite, and he won't touch him unless the other boy makes it clear that it's alright.
"You need to be more careful, Bojan." And the boy leans in, just presses his lips lightly against Bojan's cheek, brushes the wet hair off his forehead with gloved fingers. Before he even has a chance to react, the other boy is gone, jumping back up the fire escape.
"Who are you?!" Bojan calls out again. He hears laughter over the thunder crackling in the clouds overhead, sees the boy's bright smile even from his perch three stories up.
"I'm The Eagle Scout." Another crack of lightning and the boy is gone and Bojan is alone once more, ready to make his way home.
--
Bojan's not even on the bench. He's in the stands, because his ankle is worse off than initially thought and he's no use to anyone sitting on the bench. He's alright with it this time, he's not exactly willing to take off his scarf and flash the little cuts all around his neck, and if he's honest with himself, he thinks he might have caught a bit of a cold that night in the rain. Mostly he's just grateful for the opportunity to watch, to try and connect the pieces of his memory that have been bothering him ever since the night of the attack. So he watches all his teammates on the pitch, digs his cold fingers into his pockets and tries to keep warm. It's only towards the end of the game he sees him, once subs are finally made in the 80th minute and Bojan finally sees the mop of blond hair that could be his. He's not on Bojan's team, he's in all white with the number 15 on his back, and when he turns around to glance at the crowd quickly, Bojan almost swears he winks at him. The announcer says his name is Sergio Canales and Bojan can't help how wide his smile grows.
"My hero."