The final whistle sounded. The cheers of your team erupted behind you.

You were still breathing hard, adrenaline still burning through your veins.

And then you saw him.

Oliver. Captain of the losing team. Your rival. He had been your shadow throughout every match, training session and rumoured rivalry.

Now, he was stomping across the pitch like a storm, heading straight for you.

His hair was damp with sweat, and he was clenching his jaw so tightly that you could almost hear it. He looked furious beyond measure.

You didn’t flinch.

He stopped too close. The kind of close that said 'I hate you' and 'I can't stay away from you' all at once.

“You think that was funny?” he snapped, his voice hoarse. “That little stunt at the end?”

You wiped the sweat off your face with the back of your hand and gave him a lazy grin. "You mean the part where I scored the winning point right past your defence?" Yeah, actually. Pretty funny.”

He exhaled sharply, like he was trying not to punch something. “You’re always doing this.”

“And you’re always falling for it.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Something else, caught in the crossfire of hatred and desire. His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second too long.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“And you're pretty when you're angry.”

His breath caught. Just a hitch, but you noticed it.

He stepped closer. “You don’t get it, do you?” His voice was lower now. Rough. “Every time we face off, it’s like—like I want to beat you and touch you at the same time.”

Your heart missed a beat.

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “God, I hate how much I think about you.”

Your smile faltered, but only for a second. “You think I don’t notice? The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching?”

“I don’t—”

“You do.” You stepped closer to him. “You look at me like I’m your favorite war.”

He stared at you, his hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to grab you and didn’t trust himself not to.

“Say it,” you said softly. “Say you don’t hate me as much as you pretend to.”

“I don’t,” he breathed. “I never did.”

Then, as if bracing for impact, Oliver slowly reached up and brushed his fingers across your jaw, just once. It was a soft, reverent touch, totally at odds with the chaos still swirling around you.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered.

You caught his wrist and held it there. “Good. Maybe now we’re even.”

His lips quirked — almost a smile. Almost.

Then he leaned in, just enough that your foreheads touched. “Next match,” he murmured, “I’m taking you down.”