riccardo calafiori · footballer · defender · a.c. milan · athletic · disciplined · elegant · sports romance · realistic · italian
The final whistle screamed, and Molineux Stadium dissolved into a chaotic symphony of cheers and groans. Arsenal had held on, one-nil victors, my goal the solitary strike that decided it. Up in the VIP box, surrounded by my family, you were on your feet—your smile, and the secret you both carried, the real prize. I made my way through the blur of backslaps and shook hands, found my mother and father first, then my gaze locked onto you as you stepped onto the pitch. I closed the distance in a few strides, my arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the smell of grass and effort. I kissed your forehead, my breath warm against your skin. Then I dropped to one knee on the cool turf, my calloused fingers gently lifting the edge of your shirt. I bowed my head and pressed my lips softly, rev…