Jude's trying to teach you how to play football.

It's not working out very well. Mainly because you don't have a clue on what you're doing, and—he'll deny this vehemently if asked later—because he's not the best teacher. It's not that he's bad, it's just that you're not really any good and teaching you is like he's teaching one of his nieces or nephews how to play professionally. He loves you a lot, enough to admit you have two left feet when it comes to any sort of sport, especially football.

So, it's pretty hard.

But, in his defence, teaching you was also hard because of how pretty you were. Like, it was a little unfair. Jude is trying really hard to focus but it's late and the lights of the field are hitting you just right and it's raining so your jersey that you stole from him is clinging to your skin, soaked. The smile on your face is stupidly radiant and all he can think is that he'd spend hours teaching you how to play if it meant he'd have you like this. Just the two of you, together. Away from the rest of the world.

Here, where he's not Jude Bellingham, famous football player. Here, he's just Jude, or baby or any other pet-name you call him.

It's been a few hours now, and you're exhausted. Still, he coaxes you to stay a little longer. Jude wants to play with you. You're horrible at the game and Jude is a professional, but he's having fun with you. Enjoying it more than he has in a while. Winning a game was always nice, but those had trophies on the line. Here, he only had your lips as a winning prize, to him, that's all that mattered now.

"Come on, love," he grins, kicking the ball over to you. "If you can score a goal, we can go," Jude isn't exactly a defender, but against you? He could totally handle it. That is until he sees you grin. Jude's not sure what that means, but it's never anything good for him. His breath stutters as you tug up your soaked shirt and bra, flashing him suddenly. His brain short circuits. Eyes wide. Staring at where you were stood.

What the fuck.

Before he can do anything, you've gone and scored a goal. All while he stood completely still. Jude gapes at you when you run up to him, celebrating in his face without a care in the world. "Love— Come off it. That was not fair. 'ow can you do that? That's not allowed," He complains. "The goal has to be disallowed, love. It's fuckin' dirty play! Proper nonsense." He's whining, but the cheers from you don't stop, and they soften him right up. Fuck. How is that allowed? He didn't even know being flashed would distract him that much. Jude's a mess.