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Summary
“Please, just call me Sergio.” Ramos still smiled at him, wide and wolfish, though not without a decent dose of good-natured honesty. “If it’s possible, could I too - ?”
“Sure.” Luka answered absentmindedly as he surveyed his features closely; a long face, the spot high up on his cheekbones that was faintly colored pink, roughly cut overgrown hair that Ramos pulled back with a hair tie, a long nose that perhaps was originally meant to be straight but by now must have been broken at least once. He was handsome in that weirdly warm, inviting way that seemed to say; ‘you can tell me anything and it will be fine,’ that Luka found typical of Spaniards.
If he hadn’t seen him out on the field, Luka would think he looked sweet.
.
.
.
It was fine. Luka told himself that he could do it. He could tolerate being attracted to his twenty-three-years old colleague.