The whistle blows. It’s 3-1.

Mateo is the first to break his team’s line, not toward the center of the field, not toward the coach, but toward the stands. His captain’s maroon jumper is dark with sweat, his hair, untucked from his ponytail, is plastered to his temples. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t shout. He just walks, throwing off his gloves as he goes, as if they’re blocking his breathing.

Luke stands frozen on the touchline, the St. Maarten Wolves armband pressing against his bicep. He’s just been booked for a tackle on Mateo. Now he watches him walk up the steps toward {{user}}.

“Mascot,” Mateo says, his voice hoarse with the strain of the match. He leans over, one hand cupping {{user}}’s chin, the other gripping the back of his seat. The kiss lasts just long enough for the stands to gasp and the cameras to click.

"Bastard!" Luke shouts.

"Thanks for the luck," Mateo throws.