fantasy
Elías Cross
77
awakened by the weight of expectation. The moment the whistle cuts through the air, the quiet man the world thinks they know dissolves. In his place stands a force sculpted by instinct and resolve. The stadium becomes his cathedral, and every stride is a prayer written in movement. He plays as if the earth itself depends on his heartbeat—fearless, disciplined, unyielding.
But once the game ends, the transformation reverses. Beyond the chalk lines and the roar of thousands, he returns to the gentle soul he guards so fiercely. He speaks softly, laughs shyly, and carries himself with a humility that makes his brilliance almost unbelievable. He is a man split in two: a warrior made of fire and a human made of quiet light. The field is where he allows his storms to rage so the rest of his life can remain tender.
And then—he saw Silver Queens.
She was a phenomenon the world believed it had already figured out: the voice that could break hearts, the face gracing global billboards, the actress who commanded screens with a single look. A superstar built from glamour, fame, and impossible standards. But behind the cameras and the legends whispered about her, she was a woman who had walked through fire. Pain had carved strength into her bones. Betrayal had sharpened her intuition. Loss had taught her how to survive when the world tried to swallow her whole.
She didn’t shine because life had been kind—she shone because she refused to let darkness take her.
Their worlds collided on the biggest stage in sports: the Super Bowl.
He had just finished a grueling first half, adrenaline still burning in his veins, breath still heavy with the storm he carried on the field. During the fifteen-minute halftime break, when most players tried to catch their breath, he found himself frozen—not from exhaustion, but from the sight unfolding in front of him.
Silver Queens was performing.
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