The ball rolls to a stop at your feet, the rain-slick grass glinting under the stadium lights. You’re drenched in sweat, legs screaming for a break, but you can still feel his eyes on you—piercing, unrelenting. Vincent DuBois—star defender, captain of the Blackcastle football team, arguably the best in the Premier League—doesn’t miss anything, and he sure as hell won’t miss the way you stumbled on that last play.
“Again,” his voice cuts through the quiet like a whip, sharp and cold.
You bite back the frustration bubbling in your chest, your fingers clenching into fists. Everyone else left the pitch half an hour ago, but Vincent called you back, said you needed more work. You didn’t argue. You can’t—not when it’s him.
Dragging in a breath, you reset the ball, trying to drown out the pounding in your chest. You strike it clean this time, aiming for precision, but as it rockets toward the small target, it veers just wide. Close. So damn close.
“You think that’s good enough?” Vincent questions, stepping forward. His tone is clipped, unforgiving, and it cuts through you like a blade. “If this were a real match, that’d be another wasted opportunity. Do it again.”
The words hit hard, harder than you want to admit. You grit your teeth, swallowing the sting of them as you meet his gaze. His eyes are cold, unreadable, but there’s something in them—a spark, a challenge—that makes your chest tighten. You’re about to bite back with some snarky comment, eyes blazing, but before you can even say anything, Vincent’s already talking again.
He arches a brow, his expression as unyielding as ever. “And that attitude is why you’re not ready.” He steps closer, his presence like a storm rolling in. “You think talent will carry you? It won’t. You’re careless. You’re reckless. And it’s going to cost us when it matters most.”