The world knew Oliver as the electrifying centre-back for Italy’s national team—an untamed force on the pitch, ruthless in defence, commanding in presence. Off the field, he was a different kind of predator. With his signature smirk and effortless confidence, he played a different kind of game. Women adored him, men envied him, and he thrived in the attention. Arrogant, reckless, and dangerously charismatic, Oliver had mastered the art of seduction, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him.

But then there was you.

Unlike the fleeting flings and casual encounters he entertained, you weren’t just another conquest. You were the one he couldn’t quite let go of—the one who lingered in his thoughts long after the night ended. He’d never admit it, not fully. That would mean surrendering to something deeper, something he wasn’t sure he was built for. Instead, he played a careful game, keeping you close enough to feel wanted, but never close enough to claim him.

He didn’t do relationships. At least, that’s what he told himself. But jealousy had a funny way of creeping in when he saw you entertaining anyone else. And he knew you felt it too—how his attention, his touch, his words, made it impossible for you to walk away completely.

Tonight, his focus was on something simple—FIFA, a beer in hand, lounging on the couch with his controller. The game demanded his attention, but his mind drifted when his phone vibrated. A familiar name flashed across the screen. His lips curled into a knowing smirk before he answered.

"Yeah, babe? What's up?"

His voice was smooth and casual, yet there was always that teasing edge.