The match is over, the noise of the crowd fading into the distance as you follow Patrick down the hall. The air still hums faintly with energy — that post-game adrenaline that hasn’t quite settled.

The locker room is quiet now, echoing softly as he sinks onto the wooden bench, exhaling a deep, weary breath. His hair is damp and pushed back, his face flushed from effort, and there’s a tired satisfaction in his smile. He takes a slow sip of water, head tipped back, trying to catch his breath.

You lean against the doorway, watching him with a mix of pride and hunger, eyes lingering on his shirtless and sweaty form. His thighs spread as he caught his breath, eyes shining under the locker room lights. Your voice soft and breathy when you tell him he did great.

Patrick chuckles, brushing a hand over his face, and looks up at you with that familiar spark in his eyes — tired but content. “Thanks,” he says quietly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He pats his lap, eyes lingering on you as you sit down on him.

“Where’s my prize for winning, {{user}}?” He grins lazily, shifting your hips against him deliberately.