The chill of late autumn clung to the evening air, cutting straight through my coat as Tanisha and I squeezed into seats near the halfway line. I tugged my scarf tighter around my neck, blowing into my hands to keep them warm.
All around us, the crowd buzzed with restless energy. The seats were full to the brim, it was lucky me and Tanisha even found seats. There were parents wrapped in puffer jackets and huge scarfs, younger kids darting up and down the steps, and clusters of students waving homemade banners. Every time a player so much as touched the ball, a fresh wave of shouting rolled over the stands. It was immensely loud.
"That's Amir—number seven," I said loudly, pointing as he sprinted down the wing, dodging a defender.
Tanisha ripped open a packet of crisps, the sound lost in the noise of the stands. "He's quick. Look at him move," she said admiringly.
I tried to focus, but the air was alive with chanting and laughter, the cold seeping through my jeans where they met the metal seat. I rubbed my knees, shivering, then let my eyes roam the field.
And then I saw him.
Hamza. Number fourteen.
He darted past a defender, calling for the ball, his voice sharp even over the roar of the crowd. Out here, he looked different. He was focused, electric, sweat glinting on his forehead, despite the cold in the air. Not the quiet boy from maths, but someone alive and commanding.
When his shot clipped the goalpost and went wide, the stands erupted in groans and cheers, and he laughed at himself, shaking his head. Despite the cold and noise, I felt my lips tug into a wide smile.
"You're smiling like an idiot," Tanisha whispered, elbowing me, her own breath fogging in the light.
"Shut up," I muttered, still watching him. The chanting began again, with the evening air thick as the fog with excitement.
The final whistle blew and the stands erupted. Cheers, stamping feet and the chatter of people already heading for the exits. Cold air swept through as everyone shuffled down the steps, scarves pulled tighter and voices buzzing with post-match excitement.
Tanisha blew into her hands. "I can't feel my fingers," she muttered, huddling deeper into her coat.
"I told you to bring gloves," I said, though my own toes felt like ice blocks and I couldn't feel my own hands anymore. I was a hypocrite, really. But, I wouldn't admit that my hands didn't even feel like mine anymore.
On the pitch, the players were breaking off in twos and threes, slapping each other on the back. Amir spotted us and jogged over, his grin bright and wide as ever, even in the dim light. His hair was a mess, and I think that was grass clinging to one sock.
"You stayed the whole way through!" he said, beaming. "I'm impressed. It's freezing out here."
Tanisha raised an eyebrow. "You nearly tripped in the first half. We almost left."
"That was tactical," Amir said without missing a beat, placing a hand on his chest as if explaining to a press conference. "Threw them off. Classic strategy."
Tanisha snorted, though she kept a small smile. "Right. Sure."
Hamza appeared a moment later, slinging his bag over one shoulder, cheeks slightly flushed from the cold.
"Didn't think you two would actually come," he said, eyes flicking toward me with an easy grin.
"Almost didn't," I said, brushing hair from my face. "But you played… decent."
He laughed. "Decent? After that assist?" he said proudly.
"You also missed that shot," I teased. "Bit awkward."
"Wow," he said, staggering back as if I had punched him."Harsh. No mercy at all."
I stuck my tongue out in response.
Amir shook his head with a grin. "Told you, Hamza. They are the toughest critics in the stands."
I rolled my eyes at the comment. Who would humble these two, if it wasn't for me and Tanisha?
"Clearly," Hamza muttered, though the smile on his face didn't budge.
Amir tightened the strap on his bag. "We're heading to get food with the guys. Are you two good?"
Tanisha perked up immediately. "Lead the way. I'm starving."
I hesitated. "I'm catching the bus."
Hamza glanced at Amir, then back at me. "I'll walk you."
Away from the pitch, the streets were quieter. All I could hear was the sound of our shoes on the pavement and the faint hum of distant traffic. Hamza walked by by side, his steps slower as if to meet my pace.
"You don't have to walk me," I said, tucking my hands deeper into my pockets, trying to shrug off the cold.
He shrugged. "I know. But I wanted to. Besides, you owe me after all that criticism."
I laughed, rolling my eyes. "Criticism? I was just being honest."
"You call that honest?" he said, feigning outrage. "You said I missed by a mile. That ball kissed the post."
"It was still a miss," I teased, brushing against him lightly as we turned the corner of the street.
He shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips. "Alright then—next match, I'm scoring just to prove you wrong."
"You're assuming I'd come back," I said, arching a brow.
"You're assuming you wouldn't," he replied, playful but certain, his breath fogging under the street light.
I rolled my eyes, though I couldn't hide my smile. "We'll see, number fourteen."
"Fair enough," he said, voice low and warm as we reached the bus stop.
"Bye Hamza," I said softly, boarding the bus.