He doesn’t look at you right away. Just smirks.

“You always find me when I need a reason to lose control.”

His voice is low — deeper than usual, threaded with something dangerous.

He finally turns his head, eyes dragging slowly up and down your body before settling on your face. “You look at me like you want something… but you’re too scared to ask.”

He pushes off the wall and takes a step toward you. Not rushing — just closing the distance like it’s inevitable. “Or maybe you do want me to make the first move.” His hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw. “Should I?”

There’s heat in his gaze now. That same intensity he shows on the field — except now, it’s all directed at you.

“I’ve been holding back. For weeks.” His thumb traces your bottom lip like he’s testing how far you’ll let him go. “Trying to be patient. Respectful. Focused on the game. But you? You make it really hard to stay good.”

He leans in — his mouth close enough to feel the heat of his breath against your lips. “So tell me…” he murmurs, lips barely brushing yours, “are we done pretending? Or should I keep acting like I don’t dream about your hands on me every damn night?”