After I Lost My Memory, My Star Athlete Boyfriend Said We Broke Up Chapter 21

After I Lost My Memory, My Star Athlete Boyfriend Said We Broke Up Chapter 21

Camille straightened, stepped into the elevator, and pressed the button for the ground floor.

As the car descended, she stared at her reflection in the mirrored wall-red-rimmed eyes, a faint

indentation on her lip where she had bitten down. Slowly, she smoothed all emotion from her face.

She was no longer the old Camille.

The old Camille would have softened, would have turned back. She would have sprinted into his

arms the second she saw him drop to his knees.

But this Camille would not.

She walked out of the apartment complex. The night wind rushed toward her, chasing away the last

warmth on her cheeks.

On the night of the World Cup semi-final, Camille stood along the touchline and watched the full

match.

In the 68th minute, Killian met a diagonal pass from his teammate and unleashed a powerful strike from the edge of the penalty arc. The instant the ball found the net, the stadium exploded..

The moment the ball hit the netting, the entire stadium erupted into flames of celebration.

Camille watched Killian sprint toward the corner flag, slide to his knees on the turf, and roar toward

the sky.

He rose to his feet, his gaze cutting past his teammates and the roaring crowd, locking unerringly on the spot where she stood.

He looked straight at her. Across half the pitch, his eyes held hers. His lips moved, forming silent

words.

Camille couldn’t hear him, yet she read the shape of his mouth clearly: I share my glory with you.

The comment section exploded.

[A public confession to the whole world!]

[He’s changed so much. He no longer treats her like something that belongs to him.]

The final whistle blew. England won 2-1 and advanced to the final.

Camille folded her tablet and turned toward the tunnel. Rapid footsteps chased after her.

Before she could look over her shoulder, a hand gently wrapped around her wrist.

She spun around. Killian stood before her, hair matted with sweat against his forehead, chest heaving from exertion.

His fingers circled lightly around her wrist, delicate, as though afraid he might crush her. “You

came to watch me play.”

“I’m your agent. It’s only natural I attend your matches.” Camille refused to indulge his line of

conversation.

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Killian’s breathing hadn’t fully steadied, his voice rough from the game. “Will you be there for the final?”

“Yes.” His persistence was exhausting, yet she answered anyway.

A faint smile tugged at Killian’s lips. It was small, but genuine. It was the first true smile she had seen from him in months.

“Good.” He released her wrist and stepped backward. “Then I’ll score another goal for you.”

He turned and jogged back onto the pitch. His silhouette flickered beneath the lights at the tunnel mouth before vanishing.

Camille remained rooted in place. She glanced down at her wrist; the warmth left by his touch lingered on her skin.

She drew her arm close to her side and curled her fingers into a fist, holding onto the ghost of his

touch.

On finals night, the desert air in Doha was dry and bitterly cold. Camille sat in the stands, bundled in a thick coat, a scarf pulled up to her chin.

Silas sat beside her, buzzing with nervous energy at his first World Cup final, glancing alternately

the

at the giant screen and the players warming up on grass.

“Camille, do you think the senior will score today?”

“He will,” Camille said.

Silas turned to her. “How can you be so certain?”

Camille’s gaze drifted to the figure sprinting through shuttle runs on the pitch.

Killian moved lightly, knees bent low. Every burst of acceleration carried the explosive power unique to elite athletes.

“I have never doubted him.”

The match kicked off at ferocious intensity. Both sides traded chances in the first half, yet neither

found the net.

Camille gripped the edge of her scarf, her knuckles tightening and loosening repeatedly.

In the 52nd minute of the second half, Killian received the ball on the edge of the penalty area. He spun, dribbled past one defender, and shot before a second opponent could block him.

The ball arced through the air, curling past the goalkeeper’s outstretched fingertips, and slammed into the top right corner of the goal.

1-0. It was the opening goal of the World Cup Final, and the stadium erupted.

Camille shot to her feet. Her scarf slipped off her shoulders, unnoticed.

She watched Killian race to the corner flag, drop to his knees, and tilt his face toward the sky. He stood, turned, and lifted both hands toward the stand where she sat.

He was searching for her.

Camille stood amid thousands of cheering, jumping spectators, and met those gray-green eyes.

For a single heartbeat, the comments went still. A single line slowly lit up amid the sea of lights and cheers: [He found her among tens of thousands of people.]