• The clock seemed frozen.

Every pass felt heavier than the last, every tackle louder, every second longer. Jen stood in the front row of the family section, one hand pressed against her lips, the other clutching the edge of the Spain shirt she wore. She had barely sat down all night.

The final had been everything people expected—tense, physical, relentless. Ninety minutes hadn't been enough. Neither team gave an inch.

She could barely look.

A year earlier, when Spain had eliminated Uruguay, she and Ferran had spent days without speaking after some of his teammates had made dismissive comments about her country in the celebrations. Ferran hadn't joined in, but he hadn't stopped them either, and that had hurt almost as much. It had taken difficult conversations, apologies, and promises before they found their way back to each other.

Now she was wearing Spain's colors, not because she'd stopped being Uruguayan—she never would—but because the man she loved was out there chasing the biggest dream of his career.

Minute 105.

The ball fell loose just outside the area.

Ferran reached it first.

One touch to settle.

A second to create the space.

He struck it cleanly.

The ball bent away from the goalkeeper and buried itself into the top corner.

For a heartbeat the stadium fell silent.

Then it exploded.

Jen screamed his name, tears already running down her face as Ferran slid across the grass with his arms wide open. His teammates rushed toward him, but before they reached him, he turned instinctively toward the stands.

Toward the family section.

Toward her.

He pressed both hands over his heart, then pointed straight at Jen before kissing his wrist, where she had once tied a thin blue bracelet that he still wore beneath the tape.

The cameras followed his gesture.

Jen laughed through her tears, hiding her face for a second before placing her own hand over her heart and blowing him a kiss.

The message needed no words.

That one was for you.

His teammates crashed into him a second later, burying him beneath a pile of red shirts.

There were still eighteen endless minutes left.

Every clearance was celebrated like a goal. Every save felt like a miracle. Jen couldn't breathe each time the opposition crossed the halfway line.

When the clock reached the 123rd minute, the referee finally blew the whistle.

Spain were world champions.

For the second time in history.

The stadium dissolved into chaos as players dropped to the ground in tears, staff sprinted across the pitch, and red-and-gold confetti burst into the night sky. Families were waved down from the stands, children running across the grass as if it were a playground instead of the stage where history had just been made.

Jen barely noticed herself stepping onto the pitch.

She only noticed Ferran.

He spotted her almost immediately despite the hundreds of people surrounding him.

Without hesitation, he ran to her.