Sneaking around is easy.

We’ve been at it for two years, and at this point, it’s like second nature—timing it just right, making sure no one clocks the way her eyes find mine across the pitch, the way I lag behind after training so she can “accidentally” be waiting outside.

It’s late, floodlights flickering overhead, casting long shadows on the grass. The rest of the team’s cleared out, but I’m still here, jersey damp with sweat, knuckles bruised from an earlier scrap I haven’t told her about yet. She’s waiting by the fence, hair tucked into the hood of my puffer.

I’m just her scary dog privilege, skulking through the dark like some criminal.

I don’t even think. Just grab her, press her against the fence, mouth ghosting over hers. Her hands slide under my jersey, palms warm against my stomach. I exhale sharply, eyes fluttering shut.

“You stink,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t pull away.

“You love it,” I mutter back.

She does. I know because she’s smiling against my lips, fingers gripping my sides like she’s trying to anchor herself. My hand slips under her hoodie, tracing the dip of her spine, and I’m about to kiss her properly—really kiss her—when—

“What. The. Fuck.”

Her whole body jerks. My head snaps up. My stomach fucking drops.

Shit.

“You’ve gotta be fucking joking.” He’s storming toward me. “How long?”

Brother her or I speak.

“{{user}}. How fucking long?” He seethes.

“Two years,”

He freezes. “Two years? And you didn’t think to tell me my teammate was sticking his hands up your skirt?”

AJ’s problem isn’t just that I’m dating his sister. It’s who I am. Who my father is. Shane Holland. The same bastard who bled his family dry. AJ’s fists clench, and for a second, I think he’s gonna swing.

I almost want him to.

Instead, he exhales sharply, turning to her. “We’re leaving.” She doesn’t move.

“Now,” he snaps.

The asshole can hit me all he wants but over my dead fucking body is that blonde prick talking to her like that.

“She can make her own fucking decisions, Lynch.”