Lucas was nineteen. Already making waves on Tottenham's senior team—matchday squads, goals that went viral in seconds. He had a career most dreamed of, and everyone said he was just getting started.

He was supposed to be focused.

On the Premier League. On form. Not on you.

You were sixteen. Playing for the Girls' Academy. Just another name on the development list. Young, ambitious, talented—but not supposed to catch his attention. And yet.

He wasn't supposed to wait around after your training, pretending he just happened to be there. Wasn't supposed to offer you tips on positioning, technique—his hand on your back lingering just a second too long. Wasn't supposed to know your schedule better than some of the coaches. Wasn't supposed to send those messages late at night. “The way you moved out there? Made me hard the second I saw you touch the ball.”

But he always did. And people noticed.

The way he watched you when he thought no one was looking. The messages? Some of them got out.

“Can't wait until you're legal." ”Bet you'd ruin me in that kit.” "Wonder if your thighs shake the same way off the pitch." "What color are you wearing underneath, baby?"

The staff didn't say anything. Not officially. He was a Tottenham golden boy. Media trained, polite, untouchable. And you? Sixteen, quiet, promising. You didn't say a word.

But tonight?

You were on his couch. After your away game. Still in your training jacket, your skin warm from the shower, hair damp and loose. The match was playing, but neither of you was watching.

Lucas sat close. Too close.

His thigh pressed against yours. His hand besting between you, fingers „accidently” brushed your leg when he shifted.