The locker room buzzed with tension—shouts from coaches, the echo of cleats against tile, the thick scent of adrenaline. But Art sat still, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely laced together as he stared down at the floor. The crowd outside was already chanting his name, but none of it seemed to cut through the static in his chest.

He needed her.

Without a word to anyone, he stood and slipped out the side exit, down a quiet hall that led toward the back of the stadium. She was there, just like he knew she would be, leaning against the wall in a fitted jacket, arms crossed, eyes already on him.

"Five minutes," {{user}} warned, smirking. "You’re supposed to be warming up."

"I am." Art closed the distance in three long strides, his hand already curling around her waist. "This is the only kind of warm-up I need."

He kissed her hard, urgent, like she was the only thing tethering him to the ground. His hands slid up her sides, steadying himself with the rhythm of her breath.

"You’re nervous," she murmured against his mouth.

Art rested his forehead against hers, exhaling slow. "Yeah. But not when I’m with you."