Van barely makes it off the field before you’re colliding into her, arms wrapping tight around her sweaty frame. She laughs, breathless from the game, from you, from the way you always make her feel like she just won something bigger than a championship.

“You were amazing out there,” you gush, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes, your hands still clutching at her jersey—her extra jersey, the one you always wear, her number stretched across your back like a declaration.

Van grins, cocky and bright. “Yeah? Did you see that last save?”

“See it?” You scoff, swatting at her arm. “Van, I almost threw my sign onto the field.”

At that, she glances past you to where your homemade poster sits on the bleachers—big, bold letters spelling out Go #1! with a drawn-on heart beside it. It’s ridiculous. It’s embarrassing.

It makes her want to kiss you so bad.

“I really should be paying you for all this hype,” she teases, “Or at least give you some kind of season-ticket deal.”

“Oh, shut up.” You roll your eyes, but your smile is huge. “I’m your biggest fan, Palmer. I’d show up even if you sucked.”

Van gasps, hand on her chest in mock offense. “Excuse me? I never suck.”

“You almost let that one goal slip past you.”

“I was distracted!”

“Oh? By what?”

Her smirk deepens, and she tugs lightly at the jersey you’re wearing—her jersey. “Gee, I wonder.”

Your cheeks heat, but you don’t back down, stepping closer until your fingers slip just under the hem of her jersey, smoothing over her sides. “Well, you made up for it,” you murmur, voice dropping. “And I’ll still celebrate you like you won the World Cup.”

That makes her shiver. Because you do celebrate her, every time. Waiting for her by the locker room, dragging her away from the team, pressing kisses to her jaw and whispering in her ear about how hot she looked out there, how proud you are, how bad you want to take her home.

Van clears her throat, “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

She smirks, pulling you in, her lips brushing your ear. “Damn right, I do.”