Chapter 2: The Unmasking Gala

The air in the United in Manchester charity gala’s grand ballroom was thick with the scent of lilies and expensive perfume; worlds away from the familiar scent of sweat the players including Maya and Leo were used to. She stood near a marble pillar, the borrowed evening gown clinging like armor. Every flash of a camera, every exaggerated laugh, felt staged. This wasn’t football. This was theater and Maya was a reluctant understudy in someone else’s script.

Her eyes moved across the room, instantly clocking the divide. The men’s team clustered around Leo Sterling, drawing cameras and club executives like moths to flame. Leo, in his tailored tux, moved like the room belonged to him every step deliberate, every smile calibrated. His golden hair caught the chandelier light with effortless grace as he laughed at something Sir Alistair Finch said. He was magnetic. Natural. Commanding.

Maya’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have to fight for the spotlight. It followed him. She had to earn every inch of visibility with sweat and bruises.

Chloe appeared at her side, chewing on a croissant. “Honestly, May, these foods are the only good thing about this circus. Try the egg toast with truffle. Divine.”

“I’d rather they spent this budget on our physio gear,” Maya muttered, still watching the Leo-centric orbit.

Chloe snorted. “Dream on. This is all for show. Oh great. Look, Bella’s incoming.”

Isabella “Bella” Knight, the club’s PR manager, all sharp smiles and sharper instincts, glided toward them like a Vogue missile. Her gown was flawless. Her tone, sugary enough to rot teeth.

“Maya! You look stunning,” she chirped. “Now don’t be shy. Sir Alistair wants a quick shot of the captains for the new ‘United We Stand’ campaign.”

She gestured toward Leo, now being expertly shepherded in their direction by a knot of executives.

Maya summoned a smile, tight and brief. United we stand... beneath the men’s shadow.

Leo approached with practiced ease. “Maya Davies,” he said, offering a hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you properly.”

His grip was firm, his smile polished. But when their hands touched, Maya felt an unexpected spark. Not romantic. Not yet. Just... charged.

“Nice to finally meet the face of all our marketing posters,” she replied, her voice even, with a thread of steel only careful ears would catch.

For the briefest moment, his expression faltered. It was fleeting, but satisfying.

Leo recovered smoothly. “Well, I try to do my part. Perks of the job.”

“Must be nice,” she said coolly. “Perks. Cameras. Budgets. Opportunities that don’t require fighting tooth and nail just to be seen.”

The polished mask cracked a little more. His jaw tightened. “I wasn’t aware that was a problem.”

“It isn’t. For the men’s team,” she replied flatly.

The air tightened like a drawn bowstring. A silent battle waged between perfectly curated smiles.

Sensing the frost, Bella clapped her hands. “Alright! Let’s get that photo, shall we? Plenty of time for friendly banter later!”

She positioned them close, the flashbulbs popping as if nothing was amiss. A snapshot of forced unity. To Maya and Leo, it was the opening shot of something far more combustible.

Later, with the gala winding down, Isabella reappeared, her voice syrupy and loud. “And now, for a bit of fun! A friendly skills challenge, just the captains. Light-hearted! For charity!”

Maya, still simmering, felt her competitive instinct flare. Friendly? Sure. Let’s play.

She vanished to change into the designated athletic gear, her movements swift, purposeful.

When she stepped onto the small turf pitch set up in a corner of the ballroom, Leo was already there, adjusting his laces like he belonged on a stage. He glanced up. Their eyes locked. The air sparked.

This wasn’t for charity anymore.

This was war.

Round One: Crossbar Challenge.

Leo went first clean, fluid, perfect form. The ball smacked the bar with precision. A smooth grin followed, like he’d done it in his sleep.

Maya stepped up, no flair, just focus. Her shot sliced through the air, striking the bar with surgical accuracy. Controlled. Calculated.

They matched strike for strike. The crowd murmured. This wasn’t staged anymore.

Round Two: Dribbling Drill.

Leo was dazzling. Quick feet, fancy cuts, a blur of charisma. Applause erupted.

Maya? No flash. All substance. Sharp turns, efficient strides. She finished faster. A beat of stunned silence, then surprised cheers.

Leo’s smile dimmed. Just slightly.

Final Round: Penalty Shootout. One shot each. Loudest cheer wins.

Leo placed the ball. Ran up. Boom! top corner, unstoppable. Cheers erupted.

Then Maya.

She stood at the spot, the noise falling away. Her fingers twitched. Her thoughts flicked back to a missed penalty years ago, the sting of doubt. She inhaled, steadying.

Run. Strike. Curve.

The ball flew, curling just out of reach, kissing the post on its way in.

A second of silence. Then an explosion. Louder than Leo’s.

She didn’t celebrate. She didn’t need to.

Leo stared, a strange cocktail of respect and curiosity in his eyes. He nodded once.

Maya, chin raised, gave the faintest return nod.

They walked off the pitch side by side, but not together. The tension between them remained volatile, electric, unsaid.

The game had started.

And neither of them was playing to lose.