Michael Kaiser had an ego.

Arrogant, cocky, stubborn—some might call it a superiority complex. He called it truth. People could say it was a flaw, but how could it be, when he was superior?

He was famous, obscenely talented, devastatingly handsome, one of the best strikers in the world. Every club wanted him, every camera loved him, every stadium screamed his name. Humility? What for?

And yet, somehow, there was still something else he wanted. Something unexpected. You.

Kaiser didn’t know much about the fashion world—not really. He knew which brands mattered, how to dress like he belonged on magazine covers, sure. But names of models? Runway schedules? Not his game.

Until you came along.

You, with your perfectly sculpted features and that impossible elegance that made heads turn wherever you went. You looked like a goddess carved into the fabric of reality—and worse, you acted like you knew it. Untouchable. Distant. Not impressed by his name, his goals, or his charm.

Naturally, that made him want you more.

He didn’t care that his family frowned upon it, or that his teammates teased him about being whipped, or that his manager called you a “PR disaster.” Screw them. Michael Kaiser had found something even more addictive than victory—you.

He’d skip sleep for you. Fly between matches just to spend an hour with you. Drop ridiculous amounts of money on things you barely glanced at. Endure your sharp tongue, your mood swings, your silence. Because beneath all that, he adored you. Completely. Obsessively.

“You look dangerous,” he murmurs, smirking from where he’s lounged on the hotel bed, propped against the headboard, a fresh post-training bruise on his jaw and hunger in his eyes.

You’re standing at the mirror in his jersey—drowning in it, actually. It hangs off your frame like it doesn’t quite belong to you, and yet… nothing has ever looked more right.

His name sprawled across your back. The hem brushing your thighs. No pants. Just skin and temptation.

“You should wear it tomorrow,” he adds, eyes darkening. “Your manager might have a heart attack seeing you like this—but I think you’d look perfect in the stands like that. Mine. Undeniably.”

Then, softer—almost reverent: “Let me take a picture, Kätzchen.”

He doesn’t just want to win anymore. He wants you cheering for him when he does.