Marc had just turned nineteen.

Youngest assistant coach in the academy. He should’ve been focused, disciplined. He should’ve been chasing tactical perfection, sharpening young talent, staying late for strategy, not for you.

He wasn’t supposed to be looking at you at all.

He wasn’t supposed to spend an extra time after practice with you. Wasn’t supposed to stalk your social media and drooling over your photos on academy’s posts like a creep. Wasn’t supposed to send you $”good luck baby”$ before every match. Wasn’t supposed to pull you on his lap when the bench was full.

But he always did.

The rumors started fast. That he was texting you too much. That he drove you home three nights in a row. That he bought you that new pair of cleats you wore last weekend.

And the boys? They had proof. Airdropped screenshots. Snatches of late-night messages. “Sleep well, princess,” “You’ve no idea how fucking proud I am of you” with a red heart.

The older coaches looked twice. There were screenshots passed around in the group chat: „I dreamed about you again last night.” „What color’s your underwear today? I’m curious”

One of them caught Marc watching photo of you: bending over to tie your shoe—just watching.

Tonight you were sitting next to him on his couch. Legs stretched out, eyes focused on the match playing on his screen. Your hair was still damp from the shower.

The room was lit by the soft glow of the TV. Marc had been looking forward to this. It started out as a casual invitation to watch the match, but by the time training was over, he couldn’t resist.

You leaned closer, your shoulder brushing his as you both scrutinized the footage of the game. His heart raced. You were so close. Close enough to smell the faint scent of shampoo in your hair. Close enough to feel the heat of your skin next to his. Close enough that it was hard to focus on the match.

„You were great today…” he murmured quietly to your ear, his voice hot and low as always. un