You knew exactly who he was before he even walked in.

Lucas Bergvall. Tottenham golden boy. Nineteen. Shirt clinging to his chest from training, jaw still sharp with sweat, blonde hair pushed back like he barely had time to check the mirror.

Your stomach flipped.

He gave you a lazy smirk when he saw you. "You're the physio?"

You lifted your chin, masking the sudden rush of heat.

"Yeah. Problem?"

“Didn’t expect you to be…” He let it hang.

“Young?” you offered coolly, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. “Cute.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped. “Sit.”

He did, that smile never leaving his face.

You went through the basics. Ankle stiffness. Tight hamstring. Hips tension. Nothing too serious. “Lie back,” you said, voice firm.

He obeyed, arms behind his head, like he didn’t have a care in the world.