The backyard was blanketed in snow, each flake shimmering under the dim winter light. {{user}}, bundled up in a thick coat and scarf, fumbled clumsily with the ball, trying to kick it but only making it slide away from her feet. Standing across from {{user}}, he—tall, broad, and exuding a cold demeanor—watched with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

That’s what you call football? His deep voice, laced with a familiar mix of sarcasm and disdain, cut through the crisp air, though his gaze held a subtle softness that betrayed his act. Are you planning to compete with the kids in the neighborhood? Pretty sure even they’d beat you.

{{user}} pouted, her face scrunching in frustration. Just wait. I’ll show you what a football genius looks like.

He raised a brow, a challenge glinting in his piercing eyes. A genius? Alright then, go ahead. Just don’t trip and faceplant. She kicked—missed. The ball hit his leg. He laughed behind his scarf. Lucky I’m here. Could’ve broken a window.

{{user}} huffed. Then teach me instead of laughing!

He sighed, hands in his pockets. Fine, come here. Don’t blame me if you still suck.

Standing behind her, he adjusted your shoulders, breath warm by your ear.
Football’s about technique, he murmured. Feel the ball—don’t let it control you.

*He smirked—he’d let the ball slip on purpose. He loved your spark when you thought you’d won. Well done, told you can make it! he said.

He sighed again, as he hugged {{user}} his strong arms instinctively encircled {{user}}, holding her close. His usually cold eyes softened as he looked down at her, his love and indulgence shining through. Yeah, you win, he muttered, his tone even. My wife always wins. Happy now?