Chapter 1: The Finals

A/N: I like you, I love you, I CTY you ;) *wink, wink*

I could only watch. There wasn't anything that I could do to make him play better. I yelled, urging him on, but he couldn't hear me over the roar of the crowd. All I could do was watch him lose everything that he lived for.

It was the very last game in the World Cup 2014, between Portugal and England. England was winning 2-0. Portugal was playing horribly. Everyone around me was saying that it was going to be a shut-out win for England. I refused to lose hope. My boyfriend, the gorgeous Portuguese striker, was not going to give up hope, so neither was I. Unfortunately, he was playing worse tonight than I had ever seen him. If he didn't clean up his act, he would cost Portugal the World Cup title and be shamed back in his country.

I'm not Portuguese. I actually came to the World Cup as the fiancée of the Spanish goalie, Ramon Salazar. But during an unfortunate string of seemingly unrelated events of which I will explain at a later date, I became the ex-fiancée of Ramon and the current mistress of Zuko da Rocha, the man who is currently shaming his country. The entire world knows the story of how this took place, including my family and Ramon's family, both of which are shunning me for my indiscretions. For the American media, it's a dream come true. Two men, already rivals in the soccer world, are caught fighting over a gorgeous Italian supermodel. Classic.

Of course everyone was rooting for Zuko. He was a god. Tan, toned, and absolutely smoldering. He had black hair, which was always gelled back or spiked up, piercing golden eyes, and he had the body most male models could only dream of. He may have been the single most hated soccer player in the world, but off the field he was regarded as one of the most beautiful men on Earth. Everyone wanted him to end up with someone to match his looks. Apparently that person was me.

No one was cheering for Ramon, on the other hand. He was handsome, but stocky and intimidating. He was the kind of person that you would never want to run into in a dark alleyway. His buzzed brown hair and the jagged scar that ran diagonally down his face gave him an even tougher look. That scar was from an attack by a fan during a match several years ago. It had left him blind in one eye and terribly mangled. I still learned to love him, though. He was really sweet when you got to know him. But when he got angry, his Spanish temper got the best of him, which is how I ended up with a hand-shaped bruise across my face.

Back to the game. England just made another goal, their third one in the match. It's not even half over yet. As the clock ticked, Coutinho passed to Cabral, who attempted a goal on England, to no avail. Finally my Zuko was given the ball, and I held my breath, squeezing the hand of Zuko's sister, Leticia, who was sitting next to me. She smiled faintly at me, trying to reassure me that everything would turn out all right. I couldn't pay attention to her. I was too busy watching Zuko streak down the field, past all his teammates and opponents, heading straight for the English goal, where Thomas Benson awaited him. He slowed to a stop and waited for several seconds. Everyone else, including the English defense, was still trying to catch up to him. Then he drew his left leg back. I inhaled sharply. He brought it forward and slammed the ball towards the net with the most powerful kick I had ever seen him muster. It hit the rim. I exhaled, disappointed. But then, to my surprise, the ball bounced back, and Zuko swiftly and easily knocked it into the goal with his head.

The crowd roared. Whether it was excitement and ecstasy from the Portuguese fans or anger and resentment from the English, the entire stadium was on its feet. Leticia and I jumped up and down, hugging each other and waving the Portuguese flag.

Zuko made two more goals before the 90 minutes was over. The game was tied up, and we were entering an extra three minutes of regulation time. If someone didn't make a goal in the next three minutes, we would enter another grueling half hour of playing time, followed by the extremely nerve wracking penalty kicks. I sat, biting my nails, as two minutes of stalling went by. Then, to my shock, Lino got the ball. Lino was the tiniest player on the team, a boy of only eighteen years old. He was regarded as the innocent benchwarmer, who hadn't gotten any playing time the entire year. The manager, Ricardo, put him in only because he had run out of subs. No one expected anything special from him. But, there he was, running faster than lighting down the field as if he was the star of the team. He did not hesitate to put the ball right into the goal, with only three seconds remaining.

There was too much noise to comprehend. All the English players dropped to their knees, as if they had just been shot in the chest. Every single Portugal player and coach was off the bench, in a dog pile where Lino had just stood. Leticia and I were ecstatic, screaming at the top of our lungs, with tears of joy running down our cheeks. Out on the field, Zuko was holding Lino up on his shoulders while all the other teammates slapped his back and high fived him in appreciation. Portugal had just won the World Cup for the first time in history. Everyone was overjoyed. Well, everyone except English fans.

It happened too fast to comprehend. One moment, we were all jumping for joy, smiles on our faces. The next moment, there was screaming. I looked down, and saw the entire English team storming the field. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Zuko put Lino down and take up a defensive stance, along with all of his teammates. They started running at each other. And then there was fighting. Everyone was hitting each other, kicking, head-butting. Hundreds of fans began to jump onto the field and join the mass brawl. I screamed when I saw Zuko get pulled under by the crowd. Leticia was yelling things in Portuguese.

Suddenly several hundred Brazilian police officers stormed onto the field, beating down fans with clubs. I scanned the field for Zuko. I couldn't find him. Then, just as the fight started to look like a free-for-all, a white gas began to cover the field. Many people began to choke and collapse. It was tear-gas. After a few moments, everyone had either passed out or cleared the field.

I was shocked. I had never seen anything like it in any World Cup. I didn't even understand what had started the fight. It had looked like England was going to take the loss with sportsmanship, but apparently that was not the case.

Once the gas cleared, everyone could clearly see that the field was a disaster. All the grass had been torn up by thousands of feet, and there were hundreds of people lying on the ground. Most of them were getting up, having been attacked by police officers or tear gas, but a few were not moving. I spotted Zuko lying face-down in the middle of the field. One of his legs was snapped, and his uniform was torn and dirty. Tino was next to him, shaking him. Over all the noise, I could hear Tino yell.

Help! Eu acho que ele está morto!

Help! I think he's dead!

I fainted.

So, what did you think? Obviously I have more respect for the World Cup than to think that something like that would actually happen at a tournament, but that incident will help lead up to a more intense storyline later on...

For those of you who didn't pick up on the subtle references, I modeled Zuko after Cristiano Ronaldo, who is my absolutely favorite soccer player in the whole world! PLEASE NO FLAMES ABOUT RONALDO OR THE PORTUGAL SOCCER TEAM! If you don't like them, I don't want to hear about it.

I'll be getting more into the Zuko/Katara romance in the next chapter, but I needed to establish some context for the story. Oh, and in case you didn't pick up on this, the story is set in the 2014 World Cup in Brazil.

Please review! I really need some feedback!