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The security corridor set up between the Spanish National Team's bus and the main entrance of the hotel was an absolute hive of activity.
The white lights of the television spotlights cut through the night, and the noise was a dull yet deafening roar: fan shouts, flashing camera lights, and journalists stretching out their arms with microphones held high, chasing a statement after securing their ticket to the grand final.
The players walked at a brisk pace, exhausted but with adrenaline still running high. Nobody stopped. The implicit instruction was clear: move forward, wave from afar, and enter the lobby to begin recovery.
[...]
Pedri was one of the first to step off the front of the bus. Adjusting his team hoodie, he walked looking at the ground to prevent the camera flashes from blinding him completely.
However, halfway to the hotel's revolving doors, a small commotion in the front row at the barrier caught his attention.
[...]
Amid the pushing from autograph hunters and photographers, a girl with Down syndrome was involuntarily pushed backward, getting almost hidden by the crowd.
Her eyes were fixed on the footballers, trying to stay on her feet with a huge smile. Pedri felt a pang of empathy seeing her blocked from view and, breaking the group's pace, decided to step out of the security cordon to approach her.
The girl was wearing Spain's red jersey. Seeing the Canarian midfielder walking directly toward her, her face lit up completely.
“Hi,” Pedri said in a soft voice, ducking down slightly to eye level as the press's murmur quieted down around them. “How are you? Did they push you a lot?”
“Hi! It's okay, I'm fine!” she replied with infectious enthusiasm.
“I'm glad. Hey, whose cool jersey is that? Who's your favorite player?” Pedri asked, pointing to the red shirt.
The girl spun around quickly and proudly, showing him the back of the shirt. On the back was the number 7 and the name: **FERRAN**.
“I really like Ferran!” she exclaimed with conviction, pointing to the printed letters.
Beside her, a mature man—her companion—put his hands to his head with an amused expression and a hint of embarrassment.
“Oh come on, María! You have Pedri right in front of you!” her companion chided her affectionately. “How can you tell him your favorite is Ferran? Apologize to him!”
Pedri burst into a genuine laugh, waved his hand dismissively, and looked at the girl with complete naturalness.
“Relax, really, it's no big deal,” he said smiling before winking at the young woman. “I completely understand... I really like Ferran too.”
[...]
At that precise moment, Ferran Torres was walking down the steps flanked by Marcos Llorente and Marc Pubill.
The three of them were advancing with firm steps, discussing a play from the match, but seeing Pedri stopped at the side of the corridor signing an item, they slowed their pace slightly.
Noticing them approaching from behind, Pedri, without turning around or saying a single word, reached his arm back, holding out his hand with the permanent marker between his fingers.
Ferran didn't even ask. With the seamless synchrony of those who know each other by heart on and off the pitch, he grabbed the marker mid-air and stepped right next to Pedri, leaning down to sign the girl's jersey as well, right over the area where his number was printed.
The young woman put her hands to her cheeks, completely thrilled.
“Ferran! It's you!” she cheered excitedly, and looking at the forward with cheeky confidence added, “I want to be your girl!”
Ferran broke out into open laughter, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. Beside him, Pedri just shrugged with a mischievous smile on his face, saying nothing.
“Hey... I wanted to ask you something,” the young woman continued, switching to a slightly more serious tone but very determined. “If you win the World Cup... can I be the first to interview you for my YouTube channel? I'm studying journalism and this would help me so much.”
Ferran and Pedri looked at each other for a second, taken aback by such a direct proposal. The girl's companion, embarrassed, stepped forward attempting to intervene.
“Oh goodness, María, apologize to them... Really, don't mind her, she's very tired and...”
“Hey, of course!” Pedri interrupted with total spontaneity, looking at the girl sympathetically. “It's a deal. In fact, give me your details or your companion's before we head inside, and I'll leave a pair of VIP passes for you at reception for the final. That way you can watch us from a great spot, and then we'll do the interview.”
The girl gave a little jump of joy, and her companion was left speechless, acknowledging the gesture with an emotional nod. After quickly noting down the names with one of the press assistants, Pedri and Ferran waved goodbye and walked together, shoulder to shoulder, until disappearing behind the hotel doors.
[...]
The night progressed, and calmness reigned over the floor reserved for the Spanish delegation. In a spacious private lounge, several internationals had gathered to unwind after the physical and mental toll of the semifinal.
The atmosphere was relaxed: soft music played in the background, Cucurella was playing cards with Nico Williams at a low table, while Cubarsí and Lamine Yamal discussed plays on a tablet. Near the main couch, Borja Iglesias, Unai Simón, Pubill, Oyarzabal, Merino, Rodri, and Pedro Porro were chatting quietly.
Ferran was leaning back in one of the armchairs, checking his phone with his head resting on his hand. Suddenly, the distinctive sound of a mass notification echoed through the room.
Lamine looked up from his phone, blinked a couple of times, and stared right at Nico. Nico looked at his own screen and burst into a laugh that echoed off all four walls.
“I can't believe it!” Nico shouted, slapping the couch cushion. “You guys have to watch this right now!”
“What's going on now?” Rodri asked, looking up in a paternal tone. “Put your phones away for a bit, fellas.”
“No, Rodri, listen to this,” Lamine chimed in, turning the volume on his phone all the way up.
The audio from the video filled the private lounge:
> *”—I really like Ferran,” said the girl's voice in the video.*
> *”—But María! How can you say that to Pedri?” her companion scolded.*
> *”—Relax... I really like Ferran too,” Pedri could be heard saying with complete clarity and a flawless smile.*
The video cut off right at the moment Ferran appeared from behind, blindly grabbed the marker, and Pedri shrugged. A banner on the screen read: *“The most viral moment of the night: Pedri confesses his favorite player”*. It already had millions of views, thousands of shares, and the comment section was blowing up.
[...]
The private room fell into absolute silence for two exact seconds, before bursting into a wave of laughter and cheers.
“I REALLY LIKE FERRAN TOO!” Cucurella recited, standing up and dramatically putting his hands over his heart.
“Post-match quotes! Headlines all over the world!” Borja Iglesias joked, cracking up. “They just can't help themselves!”
“Perfect one-two on and off the pitch, yes sir!” Marcos Llorente added, winking at Pubill, who couldn't stop laughing.
“Ferran, bro, they took the spotlight off you, but they put you on a pedestal,” Unai Simón commented from the back, grinning ear to ear.
“And the girl asking him out right in front of him... and Pedri giving her VIP passes to hide his jealousy!” Nico Williams added, triggering another wave of laughter from the group.
All eyes in the room ended up fixed on Ferran.
[...]
The forward looked at his phone screen, where the clip was playing on a loop, and then looked up at the door through which Pedri was entering right at that moment, barefoot and carrying a bottle of cold water.
Seeing the whole group looking at him and Cucurella repeating the phrase in a dramatic tone, Pedri stopped dead in his tracks, instantly realizing what had just happened. He put his hand to the back of his neck, slightly blushing, but smiling with complete ease.
Ferran looked Pedri up and down. Inside, he didn't know whether to walk across the room to murder his husband for his lack of a filter in front of the cameras, or to just cover him in kisses right then and there in front of all their teammates—if it was even possible to love him any more than he already did.
“You're a public hazard anywhere near a microphone, I'm telling you,” Ferran blurted out, though the smile of pride and devotion slipping across his face gave everything away to their football family.