Kissing the Soccer Hotshot

Aleli’s POV

“YOU’RE dreaming about him again.”

I didn’t look up.

The brush in my hand hovered for a second, then continued its careful stroke across the rough surface of my canvas. The paint had started to dry unevenly, catching against the texture in a way that made the lines look more jagged than I intended.

“I’m not dreaming,” I murmured, eyes still fixed on the figure taking shape in front of me. “I’m working.”

A quiet scoff echoed behind me, followed by the soft sound of rubber soles shifting against concrete.

“At this point,” Malcolm said, his voice threaded with amusement as he leaned his shoulder against the wall, “you’re basically documenting his entire athletic career.”

“It’s not like that,” I replied as I dipped my brush back into the paint

“Mm-hmm.” His tone stretched in disbelief. “So this,” he gestured lazily toward my canvas, “isn’t Kristoff mid-game, running down the field like he owns it?”

I finally glanced at him, just briefly, before returning to the painting. “It’s not… exactly him.”

Malcolm pushed himself off the wall and stepped closer, peering over my shoulder with exaggerated focus.

“A soccer player,” he said slowly. “With the exact same posture. Same build. Same—” he tilted his head, squinting, “—brooding energy.”

I exhaled through my nose, trying to keep my voice steady. “I just like how he moves.”

Malcolm went quiet for a second, and when I glanced at him again, one brow was already raised.

“Right,” he said. “That’s definitely all.”

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I turned back to my painting and I added another layer of shadow to the figure’s form. The lines weren’t perfect. They never were. But they felt real. The motion, the weight, the quiet intensity that I couldn’t quite explain in words… it lived here instead.

My hand slowed.

I stared at the canvas longer than I needed to, my chest tightening just slightly as something unspoken settled at the back of my mind.

If I ever get out of this life… I want it to be because of this masterpiece.

I blinked, then quickly dipped my brush back into the paint, forcing my focus back into the work like I hadn’t just thought something too big to hold.

“Hey.” Malcolm’s voice softened a little. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you disappear into your own head.”

I wiped the brush against the edge of the container, careful not to waste too much paint.

“I’m just finishing this.”

“You’ve been ‘finishing this’ for the last hour.”

I didn’t respond to that.

Instead, I set the brush down and leaned back slightly, studying the painting with narrowed eyes. It still wasn’t right. But I knew when to stop before I ruined it trying to make it perfect.

I reached for the old cloth beside me and began cleaning my hands, careful, deliberate. Every drop of paint mattered. Every material had to last longer than it was meant to.

Behind me, Malcolm watched. “You’re running out of paint again, aren’t you?”

I paused, then shrugged lightly as I started packing my things. “I can stretch it.”

He didn’t say anything right away, but I could feel his gaze lingering longer than usual. “I told you to not send money to them,” he said finally. “And save for yourself.”

I slid the brushes into their case and closed it gently. “I’m fine.”

“For now,” he repeated, like he didn’t like the answer.

I stood up, adjusting the strap of my worn bag over my shoulder before carefully tucking the canvas into its usual hiding spot behind the stacked boards in the corner. No one came here. That was the point.

“Come on,” I said, forcing a small smile as I turned to him. “We’re going to be late.”

“We?” he echoed, pushing himself off the wall. “I’m not the one who has a reputation for showing up in front of a certain someone every morning.”

I ignored him. Mostly.

We walked out of the quiet corner and into the noise of the university like stepping into a different world. It always felt too loud after being alone for too long.

I adjusted my grip on the small paper bag in my hand.

Malcolm noticed. “You’re doing it again,” he said. “When will you stop this, Aleli?”

I looked him. “Until he notice me.”

He shook his head. “You say that like it’s normal.”

By the time we reached the main hallway, I had already spotted them.

Or him.

Kristoff Ricafort didn’t need to try to stand out. He just did. Defined jaw, straight nose, lips that rarely smile. And, even surrounded by his teammates, even with their louder voices and easy laughter filling the space, he existed differently.

My steps slowed. Then stopped.

Malcolm noticed immediately. “Here we go,” he muttered under his breath before going straight to his class, leaving me with my morning routine.

I inhaled slowly, tightening my hold on the paper bag before forcing my feet to move again.

“Good morning, Kristoff,” I said, my voice coming out softer than I intended as I stepped in front of him. “I… I got you something.”

For a second, nothing happened. Then he looked at me. Not long. Not deeply. Just enough to acknowledge that I was there.

I held out the bag.

He took it.

But not in a way that meant anything.

“Share it,” he said, passing the chocolates to one of his teammates without even checking what was inside.

A few of them chuckled, already opening the box like it belonged to them.

I swallowed, then quickly held out the folded letter. “This too—”

He didn’t take it.

Instead, he glanced at it briefly before reaching out and dropping it into the trash bin beside us like it weighed nothing.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” Kristoff said. His voice wasn’t harsh. That almost made it worse. “You should focus on your studies instead,” he added, his gaze steady but distant. “You’re still in the lower section, right?”

The words landed exactly where they were meant to.

I nodded before I could stop myself. “Okay,” I said softly. “I-I wil try my best.”

He didn’t respond. He had already moved past me.

I exhaled slowly and walked toward the trash bin, my steps quieter now, more careful. I stared at it at the letter. Hesitated. Then reached in.

My fingers brushed against the crumpled paper, and I pulled it out slowly, smoothing it out as best as I could.

“It’s still mine,” I whispered under my breath.

“Aww.” A manicured hand reached in front of me and snatched the letter before I could react. “Still pretending you matter?”

I froze, then forced myself to look up.

“At least I got in here because of something real,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Not just a… last name.”

Debbie Kiffin scoffed. She stood in front of me, her posture perfect, her smile polished in a way that never reached her eyes. Even standing still, she looked like she belonged somewhere better than this hallway.

Somewhere better than me.

Her gaze flicked down to the letter in her hand, her lips curving slightly.

“Handwritten?” she murmured. “You really thought this was going to impress him?”

“It’s still mine,” I said again, quieter now. “Can you give that back?”

She didn’t even look at me.

Instead, she tore the paper.

“You’re not even the kind of girl people remember,” she said, her tone almost gentle as she tore it again. “And that ‘talent’ you’re so proud of?” She glanced at me briefly. “In my world, it’s nothing.”

Pieces falling between us like something I couldn’t catch.

“Stop embarrassing yourself,” she continued. “Kristoff is mine.”

My hands stayed frozen at my sides as something burned behind my eyes, sharp and sudden.

“Try to act like you belong,” she added softly, her eyes dragging over my clothes, my bag, every detail I suddenly wished I could hide. “At least a little. Because honestly?”

I blinked back, trying my best to fight my tears.

Debbie tilted her head slightly as she continued, “Kristoff’s never going to look at someone like you.”