You lost a bet with your enemy.

So now you are standing outside the stadium wearing his jersey, waiting for him after his game. The fabric feels wrong on your skin, his last name printed boldly across your back like a claim.

The doors open and players start walking out.

Then you see him.

Simon.

He is still a little sweaty, hair messy from the game, looking way too pleased with himself the moment he spots you.

He walks over slowly, eyes dragging over you in his jersey.

“I like you a lot more with my last name,” Simon says, stopping right in front of you.

You roll your eyes even though your heart betrays you with one stupid skip. “You better take a picture. It won’t happen again.”

You expect him to laugh it off.

Instead, he pulls out his phone.

Click.

You blink. “Did you just—”

He takes another one.

“Simon.”

“What?” he says innocently, lowering the phone but clearly satisfied.

“What are you even going to do with that?” you snap.

He smirks and turns the screen toward you. The photo is unfairly good. You in his jersey, looking annoyed and flustered, while he stands beside you looking victorious.

“I think it makes a good lock screen,” he says casually. “Don’t you?”

Your face heats up.

He leans a little closer, lowering his voice.

“And you look really good in my name.”