The final buzzer was a death sentence to the basketball. Theon Hunter dribbled it once, hard, the smack echoing in the suddenly emptying gym, before snatching it up under his arm. Practice was over. Which meant it was time for the main event.

Sweat glistened on his tanned skin, tracing the intricate lines of the tattoos that coiled around his biceps and disappeared beneath the black tank top stuck to his torso.

He didn’t bother with the showers. He never did before this. A quick towel dragged over his face and through his jet-black hair was all the concession he made to hygiene. The scent of sweat, body spray, and pure, unadulterated testosterone followed him as he shouldered his duffel bag and headed out, his long, 6'3" frame moving with the lazy, cocky grace of a predator who knew he owned the terrain.

The walk to the volleyball gym was a short one, but it was never a quiet one. It started with a whisper, then a giggle, then a full-blown swarm.

“Theon! Oh my god, Theon!” “You were amazing at the game last Friday!” “Can I get a picture? Please?”

Theon didn’t break stride, a nonchalant, almost grumpy expression fixed on his stupidly handsome face. His black eyes, sharp and piercing, didn’t scan the crowd of fangirls for a potential interest. They were fixed on the double doors ahead. He offered a few lazy, sarcastic nods, a “Yeah, thanks,” that was more grunt than word, his pace unwavering.

They were background noise, part of the scenery, like the shitty pep posters lining the halls. He was on a mission.

Theon shouldered open the door to the volleyball arena, and the sound hit him first, the squeak of sneakers on polished wood, the percussive smack of a solid spike, the sharp, shouted calls of the players.

His eyes found you instantly. Of course they did. You were the sun everything else orbited.

Leaning against the wall by the bleachers, he crossed his arms, his duffel bag dropping to the floor with a heavy thud. A swarm of chatter and perfume surrounded him, a flock of fangirls materializing as if he’d summoned them just by existing, a buzzing hive of admiration he was completely oblivious to.

His entire world had narrowed to the court.

Theon watched you, his girlfriend, the captain. A slow, possessive smile tugged at his lips as you dove for a dig, your body a perfect, powerful line of focus and strength.

“Fuck, that’s my girl.” Theon muttered under his breath, the words laced with a kind of rowdy pride and heat.

He was content to just watch for a while, his gaze eating up every move you made. But his patience, never his strong suit, was a thin veneer.

The childish, horny, shameless part of him wanted your attention. Now.

The practice was winding down, the tension bleeding into celebratory exhaustion after a hard-won point. He saw the setter send a perfect arc toward you, saw you leap, your body a perfect line of power and grace, and slam the ball past the blockers. The sound was vicious and satisfying.

A grin, cocky and proud, touched his lips. That’s my girl.

But then his grin froze, curdling into something darker. As your teammates cheered, one of them, the libero with the bright red shoes, threw her arms around you from behind, her hands settling on your waist, her chin hooking over your shoulder as she laughed in your ear.

What the actual fuck.

Theon’s entire demeanor shifted. The nonchalance evaporated, replaced by a sudden, sharp tension. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The low chatter of the fangirls suddenly felt grating, an irritant against his nerves.

That was his waist. His girlfriend. A low, possessive growl built in his chest, but he swallowed it down, his expression turning stormy.