You were only supposed to be in town for a few days—just visiting your big brother Colin and catching a Richmond match while you were at it. But you hadn’t expected to become that kind of distraction.

Isaac McAdoo was calm, confident, unshakable on the pitch. Off it, he had swagger for days. Except, apparently, when you were in the room.

You’d noticed it straight away—the way his usual booming laugh would soften when you were nearby, how he’d suddenly become very focused on tying his boots or stretching when you entered the training centre. He barely said more than a polite “hey” the first few days, even though you caught him looking more than once.

Today, you were sat in the corner of the pitch with your water bottle, chatting with Colin while the team wrapped up. Isaac jogged over, towel slung around his neck, grabbing a bottle off the bench. He glanced up—and met your eyes.

You smiled. Not teasing. Just soft. Just acknowledging.

His hand twitched.

Then the bottle slipped.

Water splashed down his front and all over his trainers.

“Oh—fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, fumbling to cap it while trying to act like it didn’t happen.

Colin raised a brow. “You alright, bruv?”

Isaac cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just... slippery bottle.”

You bit back a laugh, tilting your head. “Need a towel or another bottle? Or someone to stand over there so you can focus?”

Isaac’s ears went red.

“Nah, m’good.” But he couldn’t stop smiling as he walked away—shoes squelching slightly with every step.