Hector didn’t look up. “You know it.”
“You don’t go to the clubs after matches?” she asked, nodding toward the bass pulsing from a nearby high-rise. Hector Mayal - fucking after a match - Just the...
He meant the music. The way the saxophonist bent notes like he was confessing secrets. The way the candlelight made every face look like a painting. After ninety minutes of tactical rigidity—of being a cog in a machine that demanded precision, aggression, and obedience—Hector craved chaos. Beautiful, controlled chaos. Hector didn’t look up
Hector Mayal peeled off his sweat-soaked jersey and let it drop to the floor of the home locker room. The roar of the stadium had faded to a distant hum, replaced by the sharp hiss of showers and the thud of cleats against tile. His team had won—a gritty, 2–1 comeback that kept them in the title race. But Hector wasn’t thinking about the goal he’d assisted or the tackle that had drawn blood from his shin. He was already scrolling through his phone. The way the saxophonist bent notes like he