I don’t usually let things get to me.

There’s no use in flaring up over every sideways look or cheap comment — especially not when you’re the vice-captain of a team that has enough testosterone to power a small country. Quiet works for me. Always has.

But {{user}}— God, she — is the exception.

She walks into training, all smug eyes and sharp smirk, and I know immediately she’s going to start something. Not with words. No, she’s too smart for that. She’s gonna talk just enough, laugh just loud enough, smile just wide enough — and not once in my direction.

Which she does. Perfectly. With him.

Connor O’Leary. Captain of the visiting team. Full of himself. Grinning at her like he’s got a shot. I’m watching him touch her elbow like he’s trying to claim space that doesn’t belong to him.

I’m watching her let him.

And I know what she’s doing. She’s pushing. Testing. Because I’ve been too fucking polite. Too quiet. Too… respectful.

She wants something else.

My jaw clenches. My fingers flex at my sides. Everyone else is shouting, training, talking. I don’t hear it. All I see is the way her head tips back when she laughs. How she doesn’t even look at me.

And I break.

I walk right past Riley who’s yelling about marking zones. Past Nolan shouting something about bibs. I cross the pitch like it’s a battlefield and she’s enemy territory.

She sees me coming — doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. Only thing that changes is her smile. It widens.

“Rory—” Connor starts.

I don’t even look at him. My hand closes around her wrist.

“Come with me.”

“Sorry?” she says, faux-innocent, goading me.

I don’t repeat myself.

I just tug her with me. Not hard, not cruel — but firm. Decisive. Something I never am, not with her, and she knows it.

We’re halfway down the corridor before I hear the locker room door swing shut behind us. The hum of outside noise cuts off completely, replaced by the thud of my pulse in my ears.

Only then do I let go.

Only then does she speak.

“Finally grew a backbone, Kavanagh?”

I turn. Slowly.

She’s leaning against the wall now, arms folded, expression unreadable — except for the smug glint in her eye that says she’s been waiting for this.

“You did that on purpose,” I say.

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Flirting with him.”

“Flirting? Or just existing near him while being attractive?”

I stare at her. She stares back. Neither of us moves.

“Why?” I ask, voice lower now.

She doesn’t blink. “Because you won’t fucking do anything. We do this little push and pull thing, and you never move. So yeah. I pushed.”

I take a step closer.

“Okay,” I say softly. “You got a reaction. Happy?”

Her eyes flicker. “Not yet.”

My fingers twitch.

“You think I don’t care,” I mutter. “That I’m just standing still. Being quiet. Being polite. But I watch you every damn day, and you know it.”

Another step. We’re close now. Too close.

“You’re not mine,” I say, voice dark, low. “Not officially. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna watch another man think he’s got a chance.”

Her breath hitches. Just slightly.

“Then make it official,” she says.

I stare at her, teeth clenched, trying to hold myself back again — but the leash is already snapped, and she knows it.

My brow raised. Here we go. “Is that what you want? For me to make this—us—official?”