I knew she was a menace the second I met her.

Pretty face, sharp mouth, always poking where she shouldn’t. She’s got this hobby, yeah? This one fucking pastime that she loves more than anything else in the world:

Driving me absolutely fucking mental.

And she’s clever about it. Subtle. Like the way she always laughs just a bit too loud at Rory’s stupid stories. Or the way she’ll lean a bit too close when he’s talking, even though he’s my cousin, not hers.

But today?

Today was a declaration of war.

We’re on the pitch, warm-up done, crowd starting to fill in, when I spot her on the sidelines. I clock her straight away because I always do—like my eyes have a magnet for her or some shit.

She’s smiling. Smug. And then I see it.

She’s wearing a jersey. Not my number. Not my name.

Rory’s.

Rory’s fucking jersey.

My entire neck tenses. Hands flexing. I’m meant to be focused on the game but all I can see is her parading around, looking all smug in his number like she’s making some sick point.

Rory jogs past, claps my back. “Oi, relax mate, she’s just winding you up.”

I glare. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He laughs, cocky prick. “You’d better play well. She might keep the jersey on otherwise.”

And I see red.

I play like a fucking demon that game. Every tackle is sharper, every run meaner, like I’m fighting for her jersey off his back and onto mine.

When the final whistle blows, I’m sweat-soaked and still fuming. She’s waiting by the barrier, pretending to talk to Rory first, all innocent-like.

I stomp over, yank the back of that jersey like I’m pulling reins on a horse.

“Take it off,” I growl low in her ear.

She smirks. “Why? Green’s my colour, don’t you think?”

“I don’t give a shit,” I snap. “Off. Now. Don’t wanna see you in his name ever again.”

She pouts, still playing. “What if I like the number?”

I lean in close, grip still on her hip. “You’ll like my number better. On my floor. In my bed.”

That shuts her up.

She gives me that wicked little grin, teeth sinking into her lip, and I know I’ve won.

But just to be sure, I mutter, “Next game, you show up in my jersey or you don’t come at all.”