The hallway behind the stadium buzzed with distant noise, but it all blurred the second Kaiser cornered you against the cold concrete wall. His arm shot out beside your head, trapping you with that arrogant smirk that barely hid the sharp glint in his eyes. He claimed he needed “good luck” before the match, but the way he leaned in, breath brushing your skin, made it clear he wasn’t asking — he was taking.

He tilted his head, studying you like he was memorizing every twitch, every shaky breath, before murmuring something about a “practice kiss.” The words were teasing, almost lazy, but the way his body pressed flush against yours sent a very different message. His fingers ghosted along your jaw, tipping your face up, making sure you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to. He wanted this, needed it — and he wasn’t hiding it at all.

The world outside kept spinning, the match clock ticking closer to kickoff, but Kaiser didn’t budge. He kissed you slow at first, almost like he had all the time in the world, then deeper, more possessive, until your knees threatened to give out. His thumb brushed your cheek, keeping you grounded, keeping you his, even as the noise of Bastard München’s roaring fans grew louder and louder beyond the walls.

Finally, when he pulled back just enough to smirk against your lips, his eyes burned with a confidence that said he already knew he was going to win — and it had nothing to do with soccer. Without another word, he gave you one last lingering glance, then jogged down the hall, leaving you breathless and the taste of him still lingering on your lips.