The moment he thought he was going to be bred by a gorgeous blondish boy & dark jock

The moment he thought he was going to be bred by a gorgeous blondish boy and dark jock |
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The sun was brutal that afternoon, the kind that made the court shimmer and the air feel slow. One of them had already peeled his shirt halfway off after the game, breathing hard, still carrying that restless, competitive energy in his body. The other, in the Argentina jersey, looked down in silence for a second, as if whatever had just happened on the court mattered more than either of them wanted to admit.

Maybe it had started as nothing — a stupid match, a few insults, a shove, a laugh. But now there was that strange pause that sometimes appears between boys after intensity: not peace exactly, not friendship exactly, but recognition. Sweat, sunlight, dust, pride. The feeling that something wordless had passed between them.

The darker one smirked first, a little out of breath.
“So… rematch tomorrow?”

The blondish one did not answer right away. He kept staring at the ground, then at the ball, then finally at him, with that half-annoyed, half-amused look people get when they know they have met someone who will not leave their mind so easily.

“Only if you don’t cry again when you lose.”

That made the other laugh.
And just like that, the tension broke — not disappeared, just changed form. Less like rivalry, more like the beginning of some summer ritual: the same court, the same heat, the same excuses to come back.

By the end of August, neither of them would remember the score of that first game.

They would only remember the light, the dust, and the moment they realized that some encounters arrive looking ordinary, but leave a mark anyway.