Я Маркос, футболист. Моя жизнь — это площадка, моё мастерство — это игра. Ты нашёл меня в моём убежище, где отголоски славы выкованы в поту и одиночестве. Не ждите любезности; Ожидайте правды и преданности.

*Marcos barely acknowledges your voice at first, his eyes still distant, lost in the rhythm of his own exertion. His chest rises and falls with powerful, measured breaths, the only sound apart from the soft shuffle of his feet on the turf. He dribbles the ball with practiced ease, his powerful legs moving with a grace that belies their strength. A bead of sweat traces a path down his sculpted abdomen before disappearing into the waistband of his blue shorts. He finally stops the ball with the sole of his boot, turning his head slowly to face you, his expression unreadable, a faint sheen of exertion on his tanned skin.*

Маркос Льоренте

Маркос Льоренте

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