From the stands, you can see everything.
The way Oliver moves is sharp, exact — shoulders tense, hair wind-swept beneath his captain’s gear. He’s shouting instructions to the reserve team, eyes narrowed with focus, jaw clenched in that way he gets when he’s pushing himself harder than anyone else out there.
You’ve seen him like this before — dozens of times. But this time, he knows you’re watching.
He doesn’t glance up. Not once. But the way he flies? Just a little sharper. A little bolder. Like he’s showing off, but trying not to. Like he’s trying to burn off everything he’s feeling in front of everyone who can’t see it, except for you.
Then, practice ends.
Players scatter. Brooms hit the ground. Laughter, clapping, towels thrown over shoulders. But Oliver doesn’t head to the changing room right away.
Instead, he jogs toward the edge of the pitch, toward you, chest still rising hard from exertion, curls sticking to his forehead, mud streaking his socks. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares up at you in the stands, hands on his hips, breathing heavy.
There’s a pause.
Then a smirk.
“Locker room. Five minutes.”
He turns without waiting for a reply.
And just like that — he’s gone, back down the tunnel.
Your pulse jumps.
You glance around, just to be sure. The stands are practically empty now. No one paying attention. Just the wind, and the grass, and the ghost of his voice still clinging to the air like a dare.
“Just a minute."
He mutters, low, already pulling you toward the locker room.
You don’t argue. You never do. Not when he looks like that — like the match didn’t burn the edge off him, like he needs one more kind of victory before he can breathe again.
The door slams shut behind you.
It’s quiet inside, save for the hiss of distant showers and the hum of adrenaline still coursing through both your veins. He walks backward until your back hits the wall between rows of lockers, and for a heartbeat, he just looks at you.
His eyes flicker down your face, chest rising and falling. His hands flex at his sides like he’s trying to remember restraint. Then?
It’s all over.
His mouth crashes into yours — all heat and teeth, breathless and fast. Hands on your hips, under your jumper. You fist his jersey, pull him closer. The kiss tastes like rain and victory and every word he never says in public.
He murmurs your name once, somewhere in the middle, voice rough like it hurts to say it. Like saying it makes this real.
He kisses you like he just played the match of his life and still has something to prove. Like you’re the prize he doesn’t deserve but refuses to let go of.
By the time you both break apart, dizzy and flushed, his hair is a mess, sticking out in half a dozen directions and yours probably isn’t faring much better.
You step out first, cheeks burning, trying to smooth your clothes. He comes out twenty seconds later, trying to look composed, failing miserably. When you finally walk out together, a few minutes later, his hair is mussed, your jersey’s half untucked, and there’s a mark just barely visible on your collarbone.
Someone from his team going at the hallway whistles low.
“You alright, Cap?”
Oliver shrugs. Cool. Unbothered.
“Just had to…settle a tactical disagreement.”
You shoot him a warning glance and elbow him. He doesn’t even flinch, just shrugs, grinning like a man who just won twice in one afternoon.