You’re not the best player on the pitch—just the one he can’t take his eyes off.

You didn’t expect your name to be on that list. Tottenham Hotspur’s elite youth camp? It sounded like a dream reserved for prodigies. But maybe dreams had a soft spot for girls like you—the ones who live and breathe football, who don’t stop running even when the lights dim.

So you ended up here, in this surreal, electric reality. Among names whispered with awe: Archie Gray, Jamie Donley, and Lucas Bergvall. He wasn’t supposed to notice you—Swedish golden boy, already a pro at 19, slick touches and sharper focus—but he did. From the first session. Maybe it was your footwork, or your fire, or the way you never gave up, even when you were outclassed.

Now, less than a month later, the camp’s returned for a special spring edition. And tonight? Tonight, it’s just you and Lucas on the pitch. The sun dipped hours ago, leaving behind golden embers that cling to the horizon.

He’s standing close, guiding your movements like it’s choreography. One touch to your waist. Another to your lower back. His hands firm but gentle as he adjusts your hips, murmuring something about “center of gravity.” You barely register the football anymore—only him, the way his voice drops when he speaks to you, how his breath grazes your cheek when he leans in too close.

“Like this?” you ask, your voice lower than you expected.

His hands stay a second longer than necessary.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “Exactly like that.”