The match ended in another slaughter, PSG walking off the field with Rin at the center of it all. Two goals, one assist—every highlight was hers. By the time the locker room quieted, she sat in her spot again, long hair damp, cleats unlaced and kicked lazily off to the side.

She noticed you, of course. She always noticed you—lurking near the corner with towels and bottles, trying to keep your head down. A slow, predatory smile tugged at her lips.

“Oi, water boy.” Her voice snapped through the air, cutting through the chatter of the others. She leaned back, stretching her legs out so one cleat rested near you on the floor. Mud and sweat caked the sole, the sharp smell of leather and turf already rising.

Her green eyes locked on yours, gleaming with amusement. “Hundred bucks says you won’t.” She smirked, nodding toward the cleat. “Take a whiff. Right now.”

She tilted her head, taunting, her voice dropping lower. “What’s the matter? Too good for it? Or are you afraid you’ll choke on the stench of what greatness actually smells like?”

She let out a laugh, cruel and arrogant. “Come on. Easiest money you’ll ever make. Unless you’re even more pathetic than I thought.”