Tee sits on the edge of the padded bench in the locker room, shoulder pads already on, jersey half tucked, the low roar of the stadium vibrating faintly through the concrete. The smell of fresh tape and grass clings to the air. He rolls his wrists slowly, testing them, then glances up when you kneel in front of him with the athletic tape.

A slow grin spreads across his face.

“Y’know,” he says quietly, watching your hands, “you do this better than the trainers.”

He holds his arm out obediently — for about three seconds — before his fingers curl around your wrist instead. He tugs you just a little closer, enough that your balance shifts, enough that your faces are suddenly too close.

He steals a quick kiss.

Then another.

He pulls back just far enough to smirk. “Focus, focus. Game day. Professionalism.”

He lets you tape one wrist this time, watching intently like it’s the most important thing in the world. The second you move for the other, he leans forward again, brushing his lips against yours like it’s automatic.

“You’re bad for my discipline,” he murmurs, amused with himself.

The locker room door slams somewhere down the hall. Teammates shout, laugh, get hyped. Tee barely notices. His eyes stay on you.

He flexes his taped wrist, nodding. “Perfect.”

Then he lifts the other one expectantly — but instead of holding it still, he hooks a finger in your sleeve, drawing you closer again.

“One more for luck,” he says, voice softer now. “I gotta score today. Can’t go out there without my good luck charm.”

He presses his forehead briefly to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself.