The Cheeky Romanian

There’s something sacred about a Saturday morning. A ritual, if you will. Some people lie in, some people go to overpriced brunch spots and pretend to enjoy oat milk lattes. Me? I get my kit on and head down to the local sports pitch to sweat out the sins of the week. Fresh air, a bit of banter, some casual yelling at teammates—it’s practically therapy.

This particular Saturday, however, was a bit... spicier than usual.

Enter: two new faces. One Romanian, all cheeky grins and flirty glances, and the other a classic British bloke—serious, composed, probably the kind who irons his pants and never forgets bin day. Polar opposites, and yet there they were, thick as thieves and equally fit in entirely different ways. Like choosing between gin and whisky. One’s smooth and fun, the other brooding and burns a little. Delicious, both.

Now, the Romanian. Oh lord. This one was all over the place—literally and emotionally. He was very touchy-feely on the pitch, and while I was mostly shouting things like “Get in position!” (because I’m a team player and maybe a tiny bit bossy), he was giving me looks that could melt synthetic turf. At one point I yelled “Follow that girl!” during the game and he turned to me, deadpan, and said, “I have a girlfriend.”

Right. Sure you do, mate. That must’ve slipped your mind when you were practically draping yourself over me in defence. Or when you kept nudging me during water breaks. Suspicious.

Then there was some passive-aggressive flirting. I said to the Romanian, “You have such an amazing kick,”—innocent enough, right? Cue the British guy chiming in, “You should see mine.”

Excuse me, sir?

Suddenly this wasn't just sport. It was Sport: The Dating Edition. Was there tension? Absolutely. Was it about our sport? Debatable.

Anyway, post-match, things got even more soap opera-y. Romanian Romeo stood there, glistening in the sun, shirt off like he was auditioning for a protein shake commercial. I joked, “Better put your shirt on if you want to go to the pub—they don’t let topless lads in.” Because I’m hilarious, obviously.

Next thing you know, the British guy's shirt is off too. Honestly, was it warm or just raging testosterone? I couldn’t tell.

We headed to the local pub, where things just got weirder. The Romanian, who we now know has a girlfriend, continued with the flirty eyes across the table. Then he casually dropped in that the British guy basically gets any girl he wants. Oh. So I’m competing with the local Casanova and the guy with a possibly fictional girlfriend. Great.

We chatted types. I admitted mine (cheeky, confident, slightly rogue-ish), and he said something vague about athletic girls… or maybe not? I’m not sure even he knows.

I asked the Romanian if he fancied a drink downstairs—just a drink, mind—and boom, the British guy pipes up, “I’m coming too.” The testosterone levels in that pub were reaching dangerous levels. We went, we drank, we returned. It was all vaguely high school, in the most entertaining way.

Eventually, I nipped to the loo, and when I came back… they were gone. Vanished. Just two sweaty mirages with questionable intentions and washboard abs. Probably for the best, I thought. One’s taken, the other is clearly a walking rom-com and probably about ten years younger than me. My heart (and ego) would never survive it.

Just as I was mentally writing them off, guess who reappears like a scene from a low-budget Netflix rom-dram? The Romanian. “How can I get hold of you?” he asks, all eager and intense. Sorry, what?

“Do you have Instagram?” he continues. Instagram. Honestly. This is what flirting looks like in 2025—hashtags and heartbreak. I gave it to him (I’m weak, alright? Plus, he earned points for bravery). Then, inevitably, the British guy goes, “I’ll add you too.” Classic.

So now they both follow me. Or lurk. Or ghost. Who knows. It’s Instagram. And let’s face it, I only use the app for doom-scrolling and the occasional meme.

Will I ever hear from them again? Probably not. And that’s fine. I’ll likely bump into them pitch-side, maybe catch a sly smirk or nod from across the field, and wonder what if. Or maybe not.

But hey, that’s Saturday sport for you—sometimes it’s all about the game. Sometimes it’s all about the players.

Until next week. Bring on the drama.

Still sweaty, still single, still shouting at strangers on the pitch.