You were sitting on the beach, enjoying the warmth of the sun while your three-year-old son was building a sandcastle. There was almost no one on the beach. It was just you, your son, a bunch of guys playing football, and an elderly couple over at the other end of the beach. You weren't complaining. As a single mom with only one set of eyes, it made your job of keeping your son on a leash much easier.

Your son was three-years-old with blonde hair and big brown eyes. He looked more like you than his father, thankfully. Your son's father, your ex-husband, had up and left the two of you shortly after the birth of your son. You were crushed, especially since your ex-husband was your high school sweetheart. You had decided to move on not long after you signed the divorce papers, looking for an adequate father-figure for your son. Most men didn't like how you had a son and usually broke it off not long after hearing about it, which angered you to no end.

"Mama, I need a seashell for my sandcastle," your son said.

"Why don't we go get one," you stated, brushing off your sand covered behind and taking your son's hand. You walked over to the waves, never letting go of your son's hand due to the fact that he could not swim. He picked up plenty of shells, all of which he discarded, mumbling about something wrong with each of them. He trudged back to his sandcastle, shell in hand, and went back to work. You sat back down, turning to rummage through your bag for the sunscreen, as it was time to reapply it.

In the few seconds your eyes were off of him, your son seemed to have wandered away. You shot up quickly, looking around frantically. "(Y/S/N), where are you?" you called, looking up and down the beach. Panic started to set in when he didn't respond. You walked over and asked the elderly couple if they had seen your son, to no avail. You ran over to the men playing football, your breathing quickening. The men surrounded each other closely, all seeming to be focusing on an object in the middle of their group. Upon further inspection, you saw your son in the middle of the circle. "(Y/S/N)!" you shouted, rushing over.

The men moved over to let you access to your son. You quickly bent down and inspected your son for any injuries. "You had me so worried! You know you're not supposed to wander off!" you scolded. After a complete examination, you were sure your son was completely alright. Sighing, you picked up your son, resting him on your hip. "I'm sorry if he disturbed you, he's usually better behaved—"

"—It's not a problem," one of the men had replied. He had blonde hair that was in a quiff-like style. He had a sleeve of tattoos on one arm. Not to mention he was extremely attractive. Your cheeks tinted a bit red but you willed your normal color to return. "Me and my friends were just playing beach football. Your son has the makings of a professional football star," he commented.

"Did you hear that mama, I'm going to be a footballer when I grow up!" your son shouted excitedly.

"What team are you going to play for?" one of the attractive guy's friend asked.

"Dortmund!" your son yelled.

"Atta boy!" the man replied, holding up his fist for a fist bump. Your son seemed to enjoy being around these guys and was happier than you had seen him in a while.

"Can I play with them for a little bit more? Please!" your son begged.

"I don't know . . ." you replied, setting your son down on the sand.

"Please!"

"If it's not a problem with your friends—"

"—It's no problem," the attractive man had replied.

"Alright then, I guess you can play for a little longer—"

"—Thank you, mama!" your son replied, waddling over to the ball. You sighed and went to go sit and watch. Your son seemed to be having the time of his life. The attractive man came and sat by you a few minutes later.

"My name's Marco, Marco Reus," he stated, holding out his hand.

"(Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N)," you replied, shaking his hand.

"You know I meant what I said about your son, he could be a great footballer one day." You smiled. You two sat, occasionally sharing small talk as you watched your son play with the men. During your conversation, you learned Marco was a professional footballer who played for Borussia Dortmund. The sun started to set and you stood up. "(Y/S/N), it's time to go," you told your son. He whined for a little bit but eventually consented, exhausted. You thanked the men and went to pick up your things. As you loaded your son and your things into your car, someone tapped your shoulder.

Turning around, you came face to face with Marco. He handed you a piece of paper. "Let me know when you and your son are free, I'll be sure to get you guys free tickets to a Dortmund game," he replied.

"You don't have to do that, you've already made his day by playing with him for hours."

"I insist," he responded. You sighed and agreed to text him when you were free. You bid him goodbye and hopped into your car. Shutting the door quietly, you looked at the paper with Marco's phone number on it before starting your car.

Five days later you and your son sat right above the Dortmund bench. Your son clapped watching the game with excitement wearing a new Dortmund jersey, courtesy of Marco. Your son hopped up and down in his seat as Marco got the ball and started running towards the goal with the ball. Marco kicked the ball, embedding it in the top left corner of the goal. You and your son cheered, your son jumping up and down in his seat. Marco ran past the Dortmund bench, his eyes locking with yours. He winked before celebrating with his teammates.

Blushing slightly, you smiled as the game finished, Dortmund winning 3-1.