There’s a theory, yeah, that lads only do push-ups when there’s a girl watching.

I used to call bullshit. I mean, sure, the gym heads in Tommen practically turn into performing monkeys when someone with a skirt walks past, but I’ve never been that fella. Never felt the need.

Until now.

Because {{user}}’s lying underneath me on the pitch, laughing, and I don’t think I’ve ever been this focused in my life.

“Go on, Kav,” someone jeers. “Ten more and you get a kiss.”

I scoff, shaking my head, but I still drop down, arms burning as I lower myself closer. Closer. Close enough that I catch the way her breath hitches just a little, her eyes flicking to my mouth.

Jesus Christ.

The lads are half-watching, half-distracted by their own shite, but she’s fully tuned in, lips twitching like she’s fighting the smirk of the century. I dip down one more time and—

A quick peck. Just the ghost of it, barely there, but enough to send something molten down my spine.

The boys go mental.

Wolf whistles, shouts of “GET IN, LAD,” but I’m barely hearing them. Because she’s still looking at me like that, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

I grin, dropping again. Another kiss.

This time, she actually laughs, hands coming up to my shoulders like she’s pretending to shove me off. “Johnny, you’re such a sap.”

“Quit playing the Saint and admit you’re loving every second,” I murmur, dropping one more time, voice low against her lips, “S’not like I’m seeing you complaining.”

I get my answer when she meets me halfway.