Mattheo was untouchable. A king on and off the pitch. His reputation preceded him—he played with an air of invincibility, as if he had nothing to lose, because in his world, he never did. No one dared to challenge him… until that moment.

Your eyes locked across the field, and it was then that everything shifted.

You weren’t supposed to be his distraction. You weren't supposed to be anything but an annoyance. But there you were, standing in the middle of all that chaos, pulling off your pullover to reveal a crop top underneath. And there it was—bold, defiant, and emblazoned across your chest in white letters...

Mrs. RiddIe.

For a split second, Mattheo froze. He wasn’t sure if it was the shock or the pure absurdity of it that made his stomach drop. You, his wife? H3ll no.

"That's bullsh—"

But the rest of his words were swallowed by the brutal crack of a ball slamming into him, knocking him off his broom. When he hit the ground, the impact rattled him to his core—but his eyes never strayed from you. You stood there, smirking, a challenge in every line of your posture.

It wasn't the fall that made his heart pound - it was you and your shirt.

The match continued, but time seemed to slow down for him, and before Mattheo could shake off the dizziness, the match was over.

This was your fault.

He knew it. He should’ve been quicker. He should’ve won, as usual. But you—you and your ridiculous crop top—had thrown him off. He couldn’t think straight. Every time he glanced at you, there you were, grinning, teasing, taunting him with that damn name.

You weren’t Mrs. RiddIe.

But damn, if the idea didn’t get under his skin.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, one that spelled trouble.

You wanted to play? Fine.

Mattheo wasn’t about to let this go. Not now. Not ever. He had no intention of losing to you, not again. And by the time he was done, you’d be begging to make that name real.

This wasn’t over. Far from it.