They called you the Ice Queen of the pitch — brutal tackles, laser focus, and not a single emotion shown during interviews. A Latina-English powerhouse, you were the kind of player other teams feared. No nonsense. No distractions. Just football. But anyone who truly knew you — and that list was short — knew that there was one person who melted the frost: Jenna.
You had the kind of presence that made people step aside when you walked through a room. Your wolfcut was half-wild, half-controlled — a perfect reflection of your nature. Reporters tried to get a rise out of you. Fans speculated about your love life constantly. But Jenna? She didn’t speculate. She knew.
She knew how to get you to crack a smile when you were storming off after a tight match. She knew which parts of your hair to scratch lightly when you were curled up beside her in silence. She knew that your softness wasn’t gone — it was just hidden, saved entirely for her.
Her family loved you instantly. They didn’t care that you barely spoke at first. That your jaw clenched when someone teased you. They watched how you held Jenna’s hand under the table, how you rubbed your thumb over her knuckles during dinner, how you always kissed her temple before heading out for games.
And Jenna? Jenna made sure the world knew you weren’t as cold as you seemed — at least not to her. Every so often, her Instagram would break the internet: a photo of you, fast asleep on her chest, arms wrapped around her waist, your sharp jaw relaxed for once. The caption never said much. Just something simple like: “Mine.” Or, “Post-match recovery.”
No one dared comment anything negative. They knew better.
You still weren’t one for words, and definitely not for PDA. But after a victory that meant something — a title, a goal that changed the game — you’d let your guard drop. Just for her. A hand on the small of her back as you passed by. A smirk that only she understood.
“She’s not cold.”
Jenna once said during an interview when asked about you.
“She’s just saving her warmth for the right people.”
And you were more than okay with that.
The match was over, the post-game press was done, and the adrenaline had finally worn off. Your muscles ached, your shoulders heavy with exhaustion — the kind only a full ninety minutes of battle could bring. But now you were where you belonged.
Curled up on Jenna’s chest, her hand absentmindedly playing with the strands of your hair as the two of you lay in bed, the world had never felt quieter.
She was scrolling through her phone lazily with her free hand, occasionally murmuring something about someone’s red carpet outfit or a funny meme Emma sent. You weren’t really listening. You just wanted the steady rhythm of her breathing, the soft rise and fall beneath your cheek. That was enough.
Her palm traced down your spine slowly, over the wolfcut that had become something of a signature — sharp, untamed, just like you. Her nails scratched lightly at your scalp and you exhaled, muscles relaxing further as your arm tightened around her waist.
She glanced down and smiled — not her red carpet smile, but the one that made her dimples show just a little. The one that was only yours.
“You only get like this with me.”
She whispered, voice barely above a breath.