Fame in Romania comes fast and burns hot. By Friday morning, Andrei's goal had been replayed on every sports channel. Newspapers ran features about the "Moldovan Miracle."
Social media exploded—suddenly he had fifty thousand Instagram followers, most of them teenage girls posting heart emojis.
Elena called that afternoon. "So, you're famous now. How does it feel?"
"Weird. Uncomfortable. People recognize me on the metro."
"Get used to it. You scored in a European competition. You're not anonymous anymore." He could hear the smile in her voice. "Want to celebrate? There's a restaurant in Cotroceni that makes the best sarmale in Bucharest."
"I can't tonight. Team dinner—mandatory. But tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow." A pause. "Andrei? I'm proud of you. Not as a journalist. As... me."
His chest tightened. "I couldn't have done this without you."
"Yes, you could have. But I'm glad you didn't have to."
That evening's team dinner was at a high-end restaurant near Herăstrău Park. The kind of place where Andrei's father could never have afforded to eat. Players arrived in expensive cars—Coman in a Mercedes AMG, Tănase in a BMW M4.
Andrei arrived by taxi.
The dinner was part celebration, part team bonding. Coach Dică made a speech about unity and fighting spirit. Glasses were raised, stories told. Andrei mostly listened, absorbing the culture of professional football.
After dinner, several players headed to a club in the Old Town. Coman invited Andrei along.
"Come on, kid. Time you see how we relax."
The club was called Gaia, exclusive and expensive. The bouncer waved them through without checking IDs. Inside, the music pounded, lights strobed, and beautiful women in designer dresses danced on platforms.
It was overwhelming.
Coman bought a bottle of expensive vodka. "To European football!" he toasted.
Andrei took a small sip. His phone buzzed—a text from Elena: How's the team bonding?
Loud. Not really my scene.
You don't have to become someone else just because you're successful. Remember that.
He looked around the club—at teammates getting drunk, at women clearly more interested in their money than their conversation.
This was the life he was supposed to want, wasn't it ? The glamour, the excess, the reward for making it.
But he just felt empty.
"I'm heading out," Andrei told Coman.
"Already? We just got here!"
"Early training tomorrow."
Coman laughed. "Always the professional. Okay, kid.
But you're missing a good time."
Andrei doubted that.
He took a taxi to Elena's apartment in Cotroceni.
She answered the door in sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie, glasses perched on her nose, laptop open on the couch.
"I thought you had team bonding?" she said, surprised.
"I did. It was..." He searched for words. "Not what I needed."
Elena stepped aside, letting him in.
Her apartment was small but cozy—books everywhere, framed photos of football stadiums, a desk covered in notepads and journalism awards.
"Want coffee?" she asked.
"Do you ever drink anything else?"
"Wine, occasionally.
But mostly coffee." She moved to the kitchen. "Why'd you really leave?"
"Because I realized I didn't want to celebrate with them. I wanted to celebrate with you."
Elena turned, coffee forgotten. "Andrei..."
"I know it's complicated. I know you're a journalist and I'm a player and there are rules about this. But I don't care." He stepped closer. "You make me feel like myself.
Not the prospect, not the kid who scored against Anderlecht. Just me."
"That's a dangerous thing to say to a journalist,"
Elena said quietly. "I could write a very personal profile about you."
"So write it."
She kissed him instead.
They made love on her couch, then in her bed, learning each other slowly.
Elena was confident and unguarded, laughing when things were awkward, patient when he was nervous.
Afterward, they lay tangled in sheets, her head on his chest.
"This is going to get complicated," she murmured.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true. When people find out—and they will—they'll say I'm compromising my objectivity.
They'll say you're distracting yourself from football."
"Are you? Compromising your objectivity?"
Elena propped herself up on one elbow. "I'll never write a puff piece about you. If you play badly, I'll say so. If you make mistakes, I'll report them.
My work is sacred."
"I wouldn't want it any other way."
"And your football? Will I be a distraction?"
Andrei thought about the system, about his ratings slowly climbing, about everything he was working toward.
Then he thought about how he felt when he was with her—grounded, understood, human.
"You make me better," he said. "On the pitch and off it."
"That's the right answer."
They fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other, the Bucharest night quiet around them.
Relationship Development: Elena Dumitru
Status: Romantic Partner
Impact: Mental attributes stabilized
Composure: +0.2 (emotional support)
Vision: +0.1 (broader perspective on life)
Warning: Relationship may create external pressures.
Manage carefully.
For once,
Andrei didn't mind the warning. Some things were worth the risk.