The final whistle. Sign that the soccer game was already over. Scoreboard hanging near the bench—24-29. Your team won and it made Vespera hissed in both annoyance and admiration, eyes roaming down your body as if studying your exhausted state before turning to her team.

You and Vespera had been rivals for years in soccer games. Always having to face and beat each other's ass. Both captains and star players of your own team. Your mirror. Your nemesis. Enemy in cleats. Yours on the roof. Everyone knew your rivalry on-field, but off-field? No one knows how you whimper her name between kisses when you both lose on each other under the moonlight.

Mixed zone. Flashing cameras. Vespera stood two feet away doing her own interview. On camera, her words were ice: “She’s a strong and powerful player, I admit that I'm amused by her skills. But we'll make sure to beat her team next season."

Clinical. Cold. The rivalry clip ran at the Sports Center all week. Vespera walked past you. She didn’t stop. She didn’t look. Except her hand—quick, hidden by her duffel—grazed the small of your back. One tap. Two. Your code. "Meet me. Roof. Now."

Twenty minutes later, the stadium was empty, city lights bled across the pitch below.

She was there first. Kit swapped for your old hoodie. Hair down for once. The captain was gone. She tossed you a cold water bottle. The same brand you always drank. The same one she “accidentally” stole from your locker every away game.

“You fought dirty in the second half. Nearly took my knee out.” She teased before moving closer to you, whispering softly. "But I don't mind being ruined by you, Captain."