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The rugby boys didn’t understand why they were there.
The idea hadn’t gone over well at first.
Roque remembered that clearly.
When Coach announced they’d be spending their afternoon watching another team practice instead of running drills, the locker room had filled with confusion, a few groans, and more than one muttered complaint.
“Hockey?” someone had scoffed.
“With all due respect, Coach, they fall over on knives,” another had added.
Coach hadn’t smiled.
“You’re here because you’re strong,” he’d said evenly. “But strength without balance is wasted. Power without trust fractures. Today isn’t about learning hockey. It’s about watching what happens when every man on the field depends on the next one staying upright.”
That had shut them up.
They filed into the rink in team-issued hoodies and sneakers, breaths fogging as soon as the cold air hit their lungs. The place smelled like ice and rubber and something sharp—metal, maybe. The sound of skates cutting across ice echoed even before they reached the stands, a high, slicing sound that made a few of the forwards wince.
Now Roque sat in the stands with his team, arms resting on his knees, posture relaxed but attentive. He wore his captain’s calm easily, but his eyes were sharp, cataloging everything. The rink stretched out before them—bright, cold, pristine. The ice gleamed under overhead lights like a weapon waiting to be used.
Down below, the hockey team filtered onto the ice with quiet efficiency.
No shouting. No chaos.
They moved like they’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times.
Roque’s gaze followed them automatically, noting spacing, body language, the way each player took his place without being told. That alone earned his respect. Rugby thrived on controlled aggression—but this? This was precision.
“Alright,” Coach murmured from the aisle, hands folded behind his back. “Watch their warm-up.”
Roque followed his gaze to the team warming up below.
They weren’t just skating. They were moving.
Lines rotated in fluid patterns. Players glided backward as easily as forward, heads up, bodies low. Pucks snapped across the ice in sharp, clean passes that landed exactly where they were meant to.
“This,” the coach said, “is discipline under chaos. I want you to watch how they communicate. How they recover. How they absorb impact and keep going.”
Roque sat down slowly, forearms resting on his knees.
He was the captain of his rugby team. He knew leadership. He knew sacrifice. But as he watched the hockey players flow through drills that looked impossibly fast, something unsettled shifted in his chest.
This wasn’t brute force.
This was control.
The drills intensified. Bodies collided. Sticks clashed. Skates carved vicious arcs into the ice. The sound alone was violent—bone on boards, steel on ice, breath tearing through chest guards.
Then it happened.
A winger came down the side at full speed, head up, eyes locked forward.
The defenseman stepped into him.
The hit was catastrophic.
The crack echoed through the rink, sharp and final, like a car accident. The winger flew—literally airborne—before slamming into the ice and skidding several feet.
The rugby team surged to their feet instinctively.
“What the hell—?”
“Is he okay?”
“Was that allowed?”
“Coach—”
The player lay sprawled for half a second.
Then he laughed.
Actually laughed.
He rolled to his side, planted one knee, and stood like the impact hadn’t rattled him at all. With a casual motion, he reached up, unclipped his helmet, and pulled it free.
The rink lights caught on sweat-damp hair and sharp cheekbones. His expression was easy. Confident. A crooked smirk tugged at his mouth as he said something to the defenseman—something that made the entire line snort.
He stood fully, unbothered, rolling his shoulders like he’d just been bumped in a hallway.
Roque froze.
The world narrowed to that man on the ice.
He moved with certainty—like someone who knew exactly how much punishment he could take and trusted himself to take it. His eyes were bright, alert, alive with challenge and humor. There was no anger in him, no fragility. Just strength that didn’t need to announce itself.
“That’s their captain,” Roque’s coach shared. “Sebas”
Roque didn’t respond.
He couldn’t look away.
“Captain,” one of Roque’s teammates whispered with a grin, “you breathing?”
Roque didn’t look away. “Shut up.”
Sebas tapped his stick twice on the ice—sharp, commanding—and his line snapped back into formation instantly. No hesitation. No argument. The drill resumed like the hit had never happened.
Roque felt something click in his chest.
That was leadership.
Not dominance. Not fear.
Trust.
The rest of practice unfolded like a lesson in controlled violence. Hits landed hard but clean. Players went down and got back up. Mistakes were corrected with quick words, stick taps, brief glances that carried entire conversations.
Finally, a sharp whistle cut through the noise.
“Alright!” a voice called.
The hockey team coasted to a stop.
The man who’d delivered the final whistle—older, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed—stepped onto the ice. Xavier. Head coach. His presence alone settled the room.
“Good work,” Xavier said. “Line up!”
The hockey players gathered quickly, skates scraping softly as they formed a neat line near the boards. Sebas stood at the center, helmet tucked under his arm, posture relaxed but attentive.
Xavier spoke quietly, but whatever he said made the team straighten, focus sharpening immediately. A few nods. A few grins. Then sticks tapped the ice in unison.
Practice over.
The rugby boys exhaled as one.
“Well,” someone said, “that was terrifying.”
He looked at his team slowly, deliberately, eyes scanning every face.
“Ready?” he asked.
Silence.
Roque blinked. “Ready for what?”
The coach gestured toward the rink.
The team stared.
“No,” someone said faintly.
“You didn’t say—”
“I thought we were just observing.”
Coach raised a brow. “You were.”
A pause.
“Now you’re participating.”
Shock rippled through the group.
“You want us on the ice?”
“With skates?”
“Coach, respectfully—”
“Respectfully,” Coach interrupted, “you run headfirst into men twice your size every weekend. If you can’t trust your balance for ten minutes, then you haven’t learned anything today.”
Roque exhaled slowly.
His team looked at him.
Captain’s call.
He stood. “Gear up.”
Groans followed—but no one disobeyed.
-
By the time the rugby coach finished speaking, the rink felt… emptier.
Roque noticed it first.
His eyes drifted instinctively toward the boards—toward where the hockey players had been
“They dipped,” one of Roque’s teammates muttered.
“Locker room,” another said. “Probably showering.”
Roque nodded, unsurprised. Practice was over. Their part as observers was done.
Or so he thought.
The rugby coach clapped his hands once. “Alright. Skates on. Skates tight. Don’t rush it.”
That earned a few nervous laughs.
Roque sat on the bench and began lacing up, movements steady and methodical. Around him, his teammates struggled and cursed and joked, blades clacking against concrete, balance already a theoretical concept rather than a lived one.
The ice waited.
Then the tunnel doors opened again.
Sebas emerged first.
Clean. Changed. Relaxed.
No pads, no helmet—just joggers, a team hoodie, and skates laced. His hair was still slightly damp, darker at the edges, curls looser now without sweat and gear weighing them down.
The rest of the hockey team followed, drifting out in clusters, fresh and easy, the sharp intensity of practice replaced with curiosity.
Sebas’ eyes lifted automatically.
The rugby team looked different than they had in the stands—bigger somehow. Less like observers. More like men about to step into something unfamiliar.
They looked… out of place. Massive bodies perched awkwardly on benches, tugging at borrowed skates like they were foreign objects. Some laughed too loud. Some stared down at the ice like it had personally offended them.
And then there was him.
Roque.
Roque was seated now, bent forward, tightening the final lace on his skates. His forearms flexed as he pulled, shoulders broad, posture calm and focused. He looked different on skates—less grounded, maybe—but no less composed.
“Well, well,” a defenseman murmured beside him. “Looks like they survived orientation.”
Sebas didn’t respond.
Roque glanced up briefly—just enough to clock the movement at the boards. He froze for half a beat when he saw them.
The hockey team was back.
Clean. Changed. Watching.
Something unreadable crossed Roque’s face before settling back into calm neutrality. He finished tying his skates, stood carefully, tested his balance with a small shift of weight.
Sebas leaned on the boards, forearms resting on the glass again. “You ever notice how leaders move the same, no matter the sport?”
“No,” a winger said. “But I notice how you’re staring.”
Sebas ignored him.
One by one, the rugby players stood. Some clung briefly to the bench. Others wobbled, laughed it off. Eventually, all of them were upright—blades flat, bodies tense but ready.
“Oh no,” a voice drawled beside Sebas.
“Absolutely not.”
Sebas blinked. “What?”
One of his defensemen followed his line of sight and snorted. “You’re doing the thing.”
Sebas frowned. “What thing?”
“The stare,” another teammate said, gliding closer. “The one you do when something’s got your full attention.”
Sebas scoffed. “I’m just watching.”
“Mhm,” the winger said. “You’ve been ‘just watching’ that rugby captain for five minutes.”
Sebas straightened slightly. “He’s leading.”
“And?”
“And he’s hot,” someone added helpfully.
Sebas shot them a look. “Watch it.”
The teasing only got worse.
“Did you see his shoulders?”
“Built like a freight train.”
“Careful, Cap. You’re smiling.”
Sebas opened his mouth to deny it—then stopped.
Roque lifted a hand. Not high. Not dramatic. Just enough.
The motion was subtle.
The effect wasn’t.
The rugby team gathered automatically, skates scraping softly as they closed in. They formed a loose semicircle first—then tightened, instinctively adjusting until shoulders brushed and space disappeared.
Sebas felt the shift even from across the rink.
Roque stood in the center now, skates planted, hands resting briefly on his hips before dropping to his sides. He didn’t rush. He waited until he had them completely.
Then he spoke.
“We’re not here to impress anyone,” Roque said, voice steady.
A few rugby players chuckled, tension easing.
“That’s good,” Roque continued, voice even, grounded. “Because we won’t. Not today.”
Sebas’ mouth twitched.
“This ice doesn’t care how strong you are. It doesn’t care how fast you are. It rewards balance, trust, and getting back up without panicking.”
Roque gestured subtly toward the rink. “You saw how they move. How they hit. How they fall and don’t stop.”
“These guys out there?” Roque nodded toward the hockey team. “They trust each other. They fall, they get hit, and they get back up because they know someone’s covering them.”
Sebas’ teammates fell quiet now too.
Roque’s voice didn’t harden—but it anchored.
“So when you step on that ice,” Roque said, “you’re not doing it alone. You fall, we pick you up. You wobble, we steady you. Same rules as the pitch.”
A low murmur of agreement followed.
Roque nodded once. “Bring it in.”
The rugby players tightened their circle. Hands stacked. Forearms pressed together. The sheer mass of them felt solid even on uncertain footing.
Sebas leaned closer to the glass.
The chant began.
Low. Slow. Grounded.
It built in rhythm, voices syncing, echoing through the open rink. Sebas didn’t understand the words, but he felt them—felt the unity, the shared breath, the promise of effort and belief.
The chant ended sharply.
The circle broke.
Grins replaced nerves. Shoulders loosened. Energy buzzed.
They lined up at the edge of the rink like men facing a dare.
The ice stretched out in front of them—smooth, gleaming, merciless. From the boards, the hockey players watched with open curiosity, some leaning casually, others perched on one skate, all of them grinning like they knew exactly what was coming.
Roque stood with his team, blades resting flat on rubber flooring, posture calm despite the tension buzzing under his skin.
Someone clapped him on the shoulder.
“Well, Captain,” a teammate said, voice far too cheerful, “you first.”
Roque snorted. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh no,” another chimed in. “You don’t get to give speeches and not lead.”
“Tradition,” someone added solemnly. “Captain steps first.”
Laughter rippled through the group.
Roque shook his head, but a smile tugged at his mouth. “You’re all enjoying this way too much.”
“That’s because it’s you,” someone said.
Roque exhaled, stepped forward, and placed one skate onto the ice.
He shifted his weight slowly, deliberately, and then brought the other skate on. For a heartbeat, he stayed still—testing, adjusting, finding balance where there wasn’t meant to be any.
“Okay,” someone muttered. “He’s got it.”
Roque straightened a fraction.
He took a careful push.
Then another.
The ice whispered beneath his blades as he glided forward—awkward but upright, arms slightly out for balance. A surprised laugh escaped him.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, this isn’t—”
He made it about five meters.
Then his left skate caught.
His balance went sideways, and gravity claimed him immediately.
He went down hard—legs sliding out as he landed square on his ass, palms slapping against the ice.
For a split second, the rink was silent.
Then the rugby team lost it.
Laughter exploded, loud and unrestrained, echoing off the walls.
“CAPTAIN DOWN!”
“Ten points to the ice!”
Roque groaned, staring up at the ceiling. “I hate all of you.”
Skates scraped as his teammates poured onto the ice after him—most of them falling within seconds themselves. One tripped over his own feet. Another grabbed a teammate and took them both down in a tangled heap.
It was chaos.
And laughter.
Hands reached for Roque—too many, overlapping, pulling at his arms and jersey. Someone slipped while trying to help and collapsed beside him, wheezing with laughter.
“Don’t rush it!” someone yelled, already on the ground.
They finally hauled Roque upright, a messy, uncoordinated effort that ended with half the team clustered around him like a human shield.
Roque bent forward, hands on his knees, laughing now despite himself. “Alright,” he panted. “Lesson one—ice does not care who you are.”
“No favoritism,” someone agreed.
Around them, rugby players wobbled and slid, clinging to each other, crashing into the boards, grinning through every stumble. Every fall was met with laughter and hands pulling bodies back upright.
From the boards, the hockey players cheered them on.
“Bend your knees!”
“Trust the edge!”
“Yeah, like that—no, not like that!”
Sebas watched Roque closely as he tried again—slower this time, more controlled. He didn’t go far, but he stayed upright. The determination in his posture made Sebas smile.
Roque glanced over, caught Sebas watching, and huffed a breathy laugh.
The ice was chaos now—men struggling, slipping, helping, laughing.
But no one was alone.
And for the first time since stepping onto the rink, Roque felt it click—not the balance, not yet—but the trust.
Same rules.
Different ground.
The hockey players pushed off from the boards almost as one, gliding out in practiced arcs.
“Alright, alright,” someone called good-naturedly. “Let’s keep everyone upright, yeah?”
Hands reached out—not grabbing, just steadying. A winger caught a rugby forward by the elbow before he could wipe out again. A defenseman skated backward in front of another, palms up, guiding him step by step.
Sebas didn’t hesitate.
He pushed off and crossed the ice in a few long, effortless strides, eyes locked on Roque.
Roque had just regained his balance again, shoulders squared, jaw set in stubborn determination as he tried to take another careful glide. His arms were loose at his sides now—better than before, but still tense.
Sebas slowed as he approached, matching pace.
“Hey,” he said easily. “You good?”
Roque huffed a laugh. “Define good.”
Sebas smiled. Up close, Roque was flushed from the cold and effort, breath fogging faintly in the air.
“Alright,” Sebas said, positioning himself just ahead of Roque, skating backward smoothly. “Eyes up. Bend your knees a little more.”
Roque did—awkwardly, but he listened.
“Now,” Sebas continued, “trust me.”
Roque raised a brow. “Bold ask.”
Sebas’s grin widened. “I’m a professional.”
Roque snorted, but he shifted his weight anyway. Sebas reached out—not grabbing, just hovering near Roque’s forearm, close enough to catch him if he fell.
They moved.
Slow at first.
Sebas guided him with quiet cues—pressure shifts, timing, how to let the blade do the work instead of fighting it. Roque stumbled once, recovered, then stumbled again.
Sebas caught him easily.
A hand at Roque’s elbow. Another briefly at his back.
The contact was brief—but grounding.
“There you go,” Sebas murmured. “That’s it.”
Around them, similar scenes unfolded—hockey players paired with rugby players, laughter mixing with instruction. The rink buzzed with encouragement and near-misses, falls that turned into teamwork.
Roque took another glide—longer this time.
He stayed upright.
Sebas eased off gradually, the way you do when you want someone to realize they’re standing on their own.
“Alright,” he said, slowing his backward glide. “I’m gonna let go.”
Roque shot him a look. “You are letting go.”
Sebas lifted both hands in surrender, skating a little farther back. “You’ve got it. Knees bent. Eyes up.”
Roque inhaled, steadying himself. His skates wobbled once—twice—then settled. He pushed off carefully, then again, momentum carrying him forward.
Sebas stayed where he was, watching.
Roque moved.
Not fast. Not pretty. But controlled. His strides were short and deliberate, arms loose now instead of flailing. He made it past the face-off circle. Then past the hash marks.
Someone on the boards let out a cheer.
“Captain’s flying!”
Roque laughed, the sound sharp with surprise. “I’m actually—oh my god, I’m actually doing it!”
Sebas felt a grin spread across his face.
That’s when disaster struck.
A rugby player to Roque’s left—bigger, less cautious—lost his edge completely. His skates shot out from under him, body pitching sideways in a desperate attempt to stay upright.
He grabbed the first solid thing he could reach.
Roque.
“NO—WAIT—”
Too late.
The impact was clumsy and unavoidable. The rugby player crashed into Roque’s side, taking his legs out from under him. Both men went down in a tangle of limbs, sliding several feet across the ice.
Laughter erupted instantly.
“FRIENDLY FIRE!”
“TAKE YOUR OWN CAPTAIN OUT, WHY DON’T YOU?”
“I THOUGHT THIS WAS A TEAM ACTIVITY!”
Sebas was already moving.
He skated over quickly, dropping into a crouch beside them. Roque lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling again, breath knocked out of him, laughing helplessly.
“I swear,” Roque gasped, “I lead with trust and this is how I’m repaid.”
The offending rugby player rolled onto his side, mortified and laughing. “Captain, I panicked.”
Sebas offered Roque a hand. “You okay?”
Roque took it, letting Sebas pull him up smoothly. “Yeah,” he said, still smiling. “Guess I got too confident.”
Sebas didn’t let go right away.
He steadied Roque once more, palm firm at his side—then, without really thinking about it, his hand slid fully around Roque’s waist. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t possessive. Just instinctive, grounding, like this was the easiest way to make sure he didn’t go down again.
For a second, Roque froze.
Then he relaxed into it, weight settling naturally, breath evening out. “You were doing great,” Sebas said sincerely, voice lower now. “You had the balance. Just… wrong timing.”
Roque laughed softly. “Story of my life.”
They stayed like that a beat too long.
Long enough for both teams to notice.
“Ohhh no,” a rugby player called out.
“Captain’s found a spotter!”
The hockey team wasn’t any better.
“Get a room—or a penalty box!”
“Hands, Captain. Very supportive hands.”
Sebas finally realized where his hand was.
He didn’t move it.
Instead, he glanced at Roque, one brow lifting in silent question.
Roque shook his head, laughing, cheeks flushed from cold and embarrassment and something else he wasn’t naming. “They’re never going to shut up.”
Sebas leaned in just enough for only Roque to hear. “Give it five minutes. They’ll find something else.”
As if on cue, another rugby player wiped out spectacularly behind them, taking two hockey players with him like bowling pins.
The rink erupted.
Sebas finally eased his hand away, but not before giving Roque one last steadying squeeze at the waist. “Go,” he said lightly. “Show off again.”
Roque pushed off—careful, controlled—and made it several strides before glancing back.
Sebas was still watching.
Both teams were still laughing.
And somehow, between the falls and the teasing and the easy closeness, it felt less like two teams sharing ice and more like something beginning to knit itself together.
-
The whistle cut clean through the noise.
Sharp. Final.
Every head turned.
“Alright!” the rugby coach called from the tunnel, arms crossed but mouth twitching with something close to a smile. “That’s it. Time to wrap it up.”
A chorus of groans answered him.
“Aww, come on—”
“I just figured out how not to die!”
“Coach, respectfully, I was thriving.”
“Out,” the coach said, unmoved. “Skates off. We’ve taken enough from the ice today.”
Reluctantly, the rugby players drifted back toward the benches, wobbling their way off the rink with exaggerated care. The hockey players followed suit, easing back as well, laughing and helping where needed, hands steadying elbows, shoulders bumping in easy camaraderie.
Skates came off. Laces loosened.
The moment softened.
Roque sat to unlace his skates, breathing a little heavier now, grin still stuck on his face. His team buzzed around him—teasing, reliving falls, replaying moments like highlights.
“You know,” one of them said, nudging him, “you fell real gracefully for a captain.”
“Yeah,” another added. “Right into his arms.”
Roque flipped them off without heat, tying his shoes and standing.
Across the rink, Sebas was surrounded by his own team, hoodie sleeves pushed up, laughing as someone reenacted a rugby player wiping out dramatically.
That’s when Roque moved.
He didn’t hesitate long enough to overthink it.
He crossed the space between them, steps steady, shoulders squared—not like he was challenging anyone, but like he knew exactly where he was going.
Sebas looked up mid-laugh.
Their eyes met.
The noise around them faded just a little.
“Hey,” Roque said.
Sebas blinked once. “Hey.”
Roque rubbed the back of his neck, breath steady but heart definitely not. “So… this might be forward.”
Behind Sebas, someone whispered loudly, “Oh, it’s happening.”
Roque ignored them. “Can I get your number?”
Sebas froze.
Actually froze.
His team exploded instantly.
“OH!”
“CAPTAIN DOWN!”
“HE ASKED HIM—”
Hands patted Sebas’s shoulders and back, someone nearly knocking his hood crooked.
Sebas stared at Roque for half a second longer—then broke into a smile that was warm, surprised, and entirely unguarded.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”
Roque handed over his phone.
Sebas took it, thumbs moving quickly as he typed, still shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe it. He hit save, added a name—Sebas—then handed it back.
The rugby team did not let Roque leave quietly.
As soon as he turned back toward them, they descended—taps to the back, shoulder bumps, loud commentary.
“OUR CAPTAIN!”
“MADE THE FIRST MOVE!”
Roque laughed, shaking his head as he rejoined them, phone tucked securely in his hand.
At the boards, the rugby coach approached Xavier, who was watching the scene with a knowing expression.
“Good session,” the rugby coach said. “My boys learned more today than they expected.”
Xavier nodded. “Happy to help.”
The rugby coach reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “We’ve got a match in five days. Home game.” He extended it. “Tickets. For you and your team, if you want.”
Xavier smiled as he took them. “We’d be honored.”
On the way out, Roque glanced back one last time.
-
It started innocently enough.
Roque had gotten home, kicked off his shoes, and sat down at the kitchen counter, still feeling the echo of ice under his blades. He picked up his phone and—without thinking too much about it—sent a quick message.
“Hey.“
He stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering. Did that sound weird? He shook his head, laughing at himself. No, it was fine. Totally fine.
Seconds later, the screen buzzed.
Hey. You survive the ice today?
Roque laughed softly. Barely.
And just like that, a conversation began.
It was easy. Casual. Natural.
They talked about music, random observations, minor annoyances of the day. Roque sent a bad meme. Sebas replied with an even worse one. They discovered small jokes that only the other would understand.
Their teams noticed the pattern.
Roque’s phone buzzed constantly, and every time he glanced at it, a grin would spread across his face. His teammates noticed.
“Captain’s at it again,” one rugby player muttered during dinner. “You see him? Grinning like a fool at his phone.”
“Probably Sebas,” another said. “I bet it’s Sebas.”
“Definitely Sebas,” someone added, snickering.
Roque rolled his eyes but didn’t hide the smile.
Across town, Sebas’ team wasn’t much better. His team watched as he leaned against the locker room wall, phone in hand, scrolling and typing and laughing quietly.
“Cap, you smiling at your phone again,” a teammate said, peeking over his shoulder.
“Looks like someone found a new favorite player,” another teased.
Sebas just shook his head, smiling faintly, ignoring them.
By the next day, Roque decided to make a bold move.
Roque: “Coffee tomorrow? My treat.”
Sebas: “You’re on. But I pick the place.”
Roque: “Deal.”
The next day, they met at the small café Sebas had picked. Both arrived early, scanning for the other, hearts beating faster than usual.
Roque spotted Sebas first, leaning casually against the counter, hair still slightly damp, eyes bright.
“Hey,” Sebas said softly.
“Hey,” Roque replied, voice catching just slightly.
They ordered, then sat at a corner table. Conversation flowed—music, books, podcasts—but every now and then, knees brushed, fingers shifted closer. Laughter was soft, smiles frequent, the world fading around them.
At one point, Sebas leaned back, sipping his drink. “By the way… my team and I are going to be at your next match.”
Roque blinked. “You’re gonna watch me play?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Sebas said without hesitation, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Roque felt something warm pulse through his chest. “Guess I better play well then.”
Sebas laughed. “You always play well.”
Their hands brushed across the table—light, accidental, then lingering just a beat longer than either of them expected.
It was simple. It was easy. It was… perfect.
They stepped out of the café into the soft glow of the late afternoon sun, coffee in hand, the city street buzzing around them. The air smelled faintly of fresh bread from a nearby bakery and the sharp tang of winter around the corners.
“Okay, my turn to pick a store,” Roque said with a grin, steering them toward a small boutique.
Sebas raised an eyebrow. “I’m warning you… I have no patience for clothes I can’t move in.”
Roque laughed. “You’ll survive. Trust me.”
They wandered, weaving through shop windows, pointing at ridiculous hats, sunglasses, and novelty items.
“Try these,” Roque said, handing Sebas a pair of oversized round glasses.
Sebas slid them on, squinting dramatically. “Hmmm… what do you think?”
Roque snorted, nearly spilling his coffee. “You’re very… profound-looking.”
“Your turn,” Sebas said, grabbing a fake mustache from a rack. He held it to Roque’s upper lip. “Behold! Señor Handsome.”
Roque laughed so hard he almost spilled his coffee again. “Stop it. I look ridiculous.”
“You look ridiculous and charming,” Sebas shot back, grinning. “It’s a rare combination.”
They tried a few more ridiculous items, laughing at each other’s choices, teasing each other, and pausing occasionally to check reflections in the mirror. Roque caught Sebas laughing at him more times than he could count, and each time, something warm flickered in his chest.
By the time they turned down a quieter street, their hands brushed occasionally—sometimes intentionally, sometimes not—and both of them noticed.
They walked in comfortable silence for a moment until they reached a narrow alley, dimly lit but still visible from the street. Sebas paused. He tilted his head toward Roque.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Before Roque could respond, Sebas grabbed his hand and tugged him gently but firmly into the alley.
“Sebas—what—” Roque started, eyes wide, but the sentence died as Sebas pressed him up against the cold brick wall.
Sebas leaned in, brushing his hand over Roque’s side to steady him, and kissed him.
Roque froze for only a heartbeat. Then he responded instantly, closing the space between them, hands finding Sebas’ shoulders, fingers tangling in his hoodie.
The world seemed to shrink. The sounds of the city muted to a dull hum. Their laughter from a few minutes ago transformed into something hot and lightless, immediate and real.
Sebas pulled back just slightly, enough to catch his breath, but not enough to break the moment. Roque’s forehead rested against his, breath mingling, smiles still lingering.
“Wow,” Roque said, laughing softly, heart hammering.
Sebas smirked. “Yeah. Wow.”
Roque shook his head, still smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” Sebas admitted, “but clearly effective.”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
They just stood there in the alley, foreheads almost touching, breaths mingling, hands still lightly resting on each other. The city noises around them felt distant, irrelevant.
Sebas broke the silence first, voice soft but steady. “Roque… I really like you.”
Roque’s chest tightened, a rush of warmth spreading from his stomach to his face. He searched Sebas’ eyes, saw the honesty there, and felt his own feelings echoing back perfectly.
“I… really like you too,” Roque admitted, words spilling out before he could second-guess them.
Sebas’ grin widened, small but undeniable, and Roque didn’t wait. He leaned in, closing the distance again, kissing Sebas fully and eagerly.
Sebas responded instantly, hands sliding down to wrap around his waist. The kiss was soft, warm and grounding, letting them both feel exactly what they’d been holding back.
When they finally pulled apart slightly, their foreheads rested together, and they both laughed softly, breathless and wide-eyed.
Sebas nodded, then on quiet impulse, he gently slid his hand into Roque’s.
Roque’s fingers intertwined with his effortlessly, like it had always been meant to happen.
They stepped back into the street together, hands linked, still laughing, still teasing, hearts a little faster. Every glance, every small squeeze of fingers, felt electric yet perfectly natural.
“Comfortable?” Sebas asked, glancing down at their joined hands.
Roque laughed softly. “Never been more comfortable in my life.”
And just like that, the rest of the world seemed to fall away. They were laughing, teasing, and holding hands, fully aware that something new—and something really good—was just beginning.
What neither of them realized was that they hadn’t been alone.
A fan had spotted them earlier, a casual observer snapping photos discreetly as they wandered the streets. The café. The boutique. All its laughter and ridiculous props. Sebas with the oversized sunglasses, Roque’s fake mustache perched precariously on his upper lip, making a perfectly ridiculous grimace while Sebas laughed so hard he had to grip the table. The moment their hands brushed and finally intertwined as they left the alley.
By evening, those pictures were all over social media.
“Couple goals!” one comment read, pinned beneath a photo of Roque adjusting the fake mustache with exaggerated seriousness while Sebas laughed beside him.
“LOOK AT THEM!” another exclaimed, under the picture of their hands linked, fingers perfectly entwined as sunlight caught their smiles.
“Sebas and Roque are so cute together! Can’t deal with this!”
“Someone get them a rom-com deal, stat. This is iconic.”
Fans were sharing, tagging, heart-reacting, flooding every platform with praise. The comments were overwhelmingly positive, filled with love, excitement, and a collective sigh of adoration.
But inside the bubble of their own little world, Roque and Sebas were blissfully unaware. They had no idea that their laughter, teasing, and hand-holding moments were being adored by thousands online.
They walked, still holding hands, still smiling, still teasing each other, completely caught up in the joy of being together.
And somewhere out there, the internet had already decided: this couple was perfect.
The next day, both teams were buzzing before practice even started.
At the rugby field, Roque was stretching with his forwards, trying to focus on sprints and scrums, when a familiar voice cut through the warm-up chatter.
“Hey, Captain,” one of his wingers called, smirking. “I saw you on the internet yesterday.”
“Yep,” another teammate chimed in, waving his phone. “All over Twitter. Instagram. The lot. You two are so cute.”
Roque froze mid-leg lift. “Excuse me?”
The winger held up his phone, showing a few of the fan posts. “These pictures—your sunglasses, that fake mustache, and the way Sebas is laughing? Literally can’t handle it. You two are cute together.”
Roque blinked, a blush creeping up his neck. “We—uh… we didn’t even see these.”
“Doesn’t matter,” another teammate chimed in, grinning. “Everyone’s talking about it. You and Sebas are couple goals.”
By the time warm-ups were over, the team couldn’t stop commenting. “Look at him smile!”
“Did you see the hand-holding?”
“Seriously, Captain, you’re glowing.”
Roque could only shake his head, laughing softly. “I… I think my team is in love with my boyfriend already.”
Meanwhile, on the ice, Sebas was skating laps with his forwards, trying to focus on passing drills, when a teammate slid up beside him, a sly grin on his face.
“Yo, Captain,” the winger said, tapping his shoulder. “You two are famous now.”
Sebas blinked. “What?”
The teammate held up his phone, a stream of fan posts open. “Photos, man. You laughing at Roque with a fake mustache. Roque with sunglasses. Holding hands on the street. Everyone loves you two.”
Sebas glanced at the phone being waved around. There it was—their hands intertwined, the café and boutique snapshots. His own laughter at Roque’s fake mustache caught mid-photo made him grin again.
“Wow,” Sebas said, shaking his head with a smile. “Okay… yeah, I guess we are kinda cute.”
The rest of the team wasn’t subtle. “Look at him blushing!”
“You’re smiling at your phone, Cap!”
Sebas rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face. “You guys are ridiculous. But… thank you.”
Both captains went through practice that day with their teams quietly commenting about how cute the two were together.
It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t teasing in a mean way. It was admiration, pure and playful, like everyone around them was silently rooting for their happiness.
And for Sebas and Roque, every smile, every glance, every whispered “so cute” just made their own smiles wider.
Because even with teams watching, it felt like they had the whole world to themselves.
-
Game day.
The stadium buzzed with energy. Roque’s rugby team was warming up on the field, stretching, running drills, and taking quick passes. The grass smelled fresh, the crisp air sharp and biting in a way that made everything feel electric.
Up in the stands, Sebas and his hockey teammates were settled, jackets draped over their shoulders. They had tickets from Roque’s coach, front and center, and were scanning the field with excitement.
Roque was just adjusting his cleats when a sudden roar came from the crowd.
“SEBAS! SEBAS! SEBAS!”
He glanced up, startled, and realized the stadium’s Jumbotron had flickered on. The giant screen showed Sebas, standing tall with his team behind him, the arena lights catching the faint shine in his hair. He waved, flashing that easy, teasing grin.
Roque’s chest tightened in a way he didn’t expect. His lips curved into a smile almost immediately, heart skipping.
And then Sebas did it.
He turned, shifting his body to the side, and Roque noticed it instantly: he was wearing a jersey—Roque’s jersey, number and name proudly displayed on the back.
The stadium erupted again. Fans cheered, whistled, and laughed.
“Roque! LOOK AT HIM!” someone yelled from the stands.
Roque’s jaw dropped, his smile widening almost impossibly. He lifted a hand instinctively, waving back at Sebas, who caught his eye immediately. Sebas’ grin widened, playful and full of mischief, like he’d known this reaction would happen.
Roque’s teammates nudged him, shouting teasingly.
“Whoa, Captain!”
“Someone’s got their own fan in the stands!”
“Dude, check the jersey! He’s wearing your number! That’s adorable!”
Roque felt heat rise to his cheeks. He glanced down at his own jersey, then back at Sebas, who was now leaning slightly forward, giving him a cheeky thumbs-up.
“Unbelievable,” Roque muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
The whistle blew, snapping him out of it. He shook his head, laughing softly, and jogged toward his team. But every time he glanced up at the stands, Sebas’ eyes met his, and that grin—the one that had made his heart do flips since the alley—was impossible to ignore.
Roque couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Not at the crowd. Not at the game. But at Sebas.
And for the first time that day, he realized the match didn’t matter nearly as much as the view from the field.
Sebas was cheering for him.
The whistle blew, and the game was on.
Roque’s team charged onto the field with intensity, every pass, every tackle executed with precision. The rugby players were fast, strong, and unrelenting, moving like a well-oiled machine—but with just enough chaos to keep it thrilling.
Up in the stands, Sebas and his team watched, mouths slightly open.
“Wow,” Sebas breathed, leaning forward on the railing. “They’re incredible.”
“Seriously,” his winger agreed, shaking his head. “I knew rugby was rough… but this? This is art.”
Every hard tackle made the hockey players flinch—though not in fear, more in awe. One of Roque’s forwards slammed into an opponent, both tumbling to the ground in a heap, only to pop up instantly and keep running. Sebas’ jaw practically dropped.
“Damn,” he murmured, shaking his head. “That had to have hurt.”
By halftime, Roque’s team had built a solid lead, their coordination and energy leaving the opposing side scrambling. Sebas watched every play, cheering, clapping, and occasionally teasing Roque through the screen of the crowd.
When the final whistle blew, Roque’s team had won.
The stadium erupted. His teammates hugged, lifted each other, high-fiving and shouting with pure joy. Roque’s face was flushed with sweat and triumph, grin wide as he sprinted toward the stands.
Without hesitation, Roque ran, pumping his legs, adrenaline coursing. When he reached the railing, he jumped, hands grasping the bars as Sebas leaned down. The distance closed in an instant.
They collided in a kiss—sweaty, messy, perfect. Roque’s hands went to Sebas’ face and shoulders, Sebas’ arms wrapped around Roque’s waist. The roar of the stadium faded for a second; nothing existed except them.
When they finally pulled back just slightly, foreheads touching, both were laughing breathlessly.
Behind them, both teams were cheering—teasing, whooping, and clapping—while fans caught the moment on cameras, already immortalizing it as another iconic “couple goals” highlight.
But for Roque and Sebas, all that mattered was that kiss. That smile. That perfect, messy, unstoppable happiness they had found in each other.
And in that stadium, with the game won and the world cheering around them, nothing else existed.
This was just the beginning.
The beginning of victories on the field.
The beginning of wins in the rink.
And the beginning of something much bigger, sweeter, and infinitely more lasting—together.