The stadium thundered with chants of “Kane! Kane!” as Harry struck another goal, but Peter Schmeichel barely flinched. He sat at the far back, away from prying eyes, a black coffee in hand, his men looming like shadows behind him. Blond hair slicked back, ice-blue eyes narrowed, the infamous English drug lord wasn’t here for football. He was here for business—an exchange of documents, clean and unseen.

But then you appeared.

Wide-eyed, playful, your laughter like a spark against the cold edge of the night. A black-haired baddie with a body that didn’t just walk past—it commanded the air around it. Hourglass curves poured into denim, thunder thighs carrying a confident strut. You moved through the row, and as you passed in front of him, your ass brushed against his knees—an accident, casual to you, but to him? It was a firestorm.

His grip on the coffee tightened, jaw ticking as he tilted his head to follow your movement. You dropped into the empty seat beside him, blissfully unaware—or maybe amused—that the most dangerous man in the stadium was already consumed.

Peter’s gaze dragged down your profile, the curve of your cheek, the glint of amusement in your eyes. Charming, extroverted, a contrast to his silence. You were chaos where he was calculation.

His men shifted uneasily behind him, sensing the change in the air. But Peter only leaned back in his chair, silent and observing, those piercing blue eyes fixed on you.

"Out of seven thousand seats in this stadium…" his voice finally broke the silence, deep and low, threaded with that ruthless charm, “…you had to take the one next to me?”

It wasn’t a question. It was the start of an obsession.