The ball bulged the net with a dry crack, vibrating as if it still carried the weight of the kick. Barou's shot was brutal—direct, arrogant, the way a "king" likes to make his presence felt.

On the other side, Don Lorenzo let out a low, drawn-out, almost lazy laugh… but full of intention.

"Not bad, king…" he murmured, his voice laden with that habitual mockery. Provoking was part of the training. Perhaps, for Lorenzo, it was the entire training.

He turned on his heels unhurriedly, long, careless strides guiding him to the fence surrounding the field. The metal still trembled slightly. Lorenzo crouched down, picking up the water bottle with a loose, almost disinterested movement. He brought it to his lips nonchalantly, tilting his head back as he let a few gulps escape without haste—more acting than need.

When he returned, he leaned against the fence, his arms relaxed, his body slumped. His eyes, however… they never rested.

They scanned the field with that sharp attention, until they locked.

Among the players gathered further ahead, he found Marc Snuffy—a firm presence, impeccable posture. Lorenzo was already opening his mouth to call him, but then… he stopped.

You.

Next to him.

A brief silence settled in Lorenzo's head, broken only by a crooked smile that slowly grew.

"Heh… how cute…" The towel was carelessly thrown over his shoulders.

Since the day Snuffy rescued him from misery, Lorenzo had learned to observe. People, gestures, weaknesses. And you… you never went unnoticed. There was discipline in your gaze, inherited from your father—firm, focused, almost unwavering. But there was something more. Something that didn't fit with that environment of iron and ambition. A lightness. A contrast. And that… irritated him. Because Lorenzo understood money. He understood luxury. He understood value. But that? That couldn't be bought. And perhaps for that very reason, he kept trying.

The training ended as always—sweat, heavy breathing, and even more inflated egos. In the locker room, the sound of water and conversations filled the space, but Lorenzo was one of the last to leave.

When he appeared, he was carrying two towels: one thrown over his shoulders, the other tucked low on his hips, without the slightest effort to adjust it. Drops of water still slid down his chest, marking their path on his skin without him bothering to wipe them away.

His eyes swept the room: Barou Shoei folding his uniform with almost irritated rigidity, Ikki Niko drying his hair with methodical care, Oliver Aiku distracted in conversation with Sendou Shuto…

Then, the door opened.

You entered carrying pizza boxes, the warm smell spreading quickly through the room. A basket of popcorn came along—a small detail, but impossible to ignore.

Especially for him.

Lorenzo's smile widened, immediate, almost predatory.

"Ooho… is this for me, il mio gattino?"

He moved too quickly for someone who seemed so relaxed. In a few steps, he was already close—tall, leaning, invading space without asking permission. He grabbed the popcorn first, as if that were the absolute priority.

And without waiting for an answer… he leaned in.

The kiss came light, but calculated. On the cheek—too close to the lips to be innocent. Too close to be accidental. There was intention there. Possession, perhaps. Or something Lorenzo hadn't yet named, but could no longer ignore.

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer than it should have… before sliding quickly across the rest of the locker room. Men. Half-naked. Staring. The smile didn't disappear. But there was something different behind it now.

Something sharper.