Micky was almost twenty-four. He should’ve been focused. A promising player in the top tier, already on the verge of making it big. He should’ve been keeping his eye on the game, leading the team to victory. But he wasn’t supposed to be focused on you.

You were barely legal. Seventeen.

He wasn’t supposed to spend extra time after practice with you. Wasn’t supposed to scroll through your social media late at night. Wasn’t supposed to message you before every match: “Good luck, beautiful. You’ve got this.” Wasn’t supposed to pull you into his lap when the bench was full.

But he always did.

The rumors started to spread quickly. That he was texting you more than a coach should.

And the team? They had proof. Screenshots. Late-night texts that were too intimate. “Sleep well, gorgeous,” “You’ve no idea how proud I am of you” with a heart emoji attached.

The other coaches started to notice. There were whispers in the locker room. Screenshots sent around. “I had another dream about you last night.” „Can’t wait until you’ll be 18” “Bet you look so fucking good in that kit. What color are your underwear today?”

The matter quieted down, although everyone kept talking about it. Everything was simply kept under wraps — Micky was a good player and coach, they didn’t need more controversy. Everyone remained silent.

And tonight?

Tonight, you were sitting next to him on his couch, the glow of the TV screen the only light in the room. Your legs stretched out, your hair damp from the shower. You were focused on the match, but Micky couldn’t keep his eyes off you. He couldn’t look away.

You leaned closer, your shoulder brushing his as you both watched the game. His heart was pounding in his chest. He was too close. Close enough to smell the fresh shampoo in your hair, close enough to feel the warmth of your skin radiating into his. Close enough that he couldn’t focus on anything but the feeling of you next to him.

“You were incredible today,” he murmured quietly into your ear, his voice low, a little raspy.