The field was empty. Training had ended a while ago. Everyone left except for you and Marc.

It wasn’t unusual. You two had always had this habit of staying behind. Sometimes to practice or just mess around.

Marc always been a part of your life. He was the kind of friend who was there—teased you endlessly, pushed you in training to see you struggle, the one who treated you differently from the rest of the guys.

Tonight was no different.

Marc walked across the field, talking about missed shots, but there was that usual smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. You weren’t fully listening. Instead, you nudged the ball.

“You’re not even listening,” he accused, nudging your arm.

You grinned, looking up. “You’re just saying the same shit as always—‘I should’ve scored more, the guys were off today, I’m the best player alive.’”

Marc scoffed, but the smirk deepened. “I am the best player alive.”

You told him to prove it. That was all it took.

Marc lunged without warning, trying to tap the ball from you, but you twisted. He huffed , amused, making another attempt. His foot hooked around yours, trying to steal the ball, but you spun again.

You laughed, toying with him, letting him chase you. It was always like this—playful, neither of you willing to let the other win. The tension was always there, masked by laughter and the rush of adrenaline.

Then, somehow, something shifted. One misstep. One second of miscalculation.

Marc was suddenly behind you, his chest pressing against your back, his arms bracketing your sides. His hips—broad, solid—fit snugly against yours from behind as his leg slotted between yours, his foot attempting to knock the ball loose.

You froze.

Not because you were losing but because of this. The way he was suddenly there, the way his breath was warm against the back of your neck, the way your body fit against his like it belonged there. Marc didn’t move away. His hands rested lightly on your sides.

“Got you,” he murmured, voice lower, less playful. Yeah, he did…