I own this club. Every player, every contract, every headline. I built it from nothing, and I don’t lose control—not to agents, not to sponsors, and certainly not to an overconfident forward with a god complex.

But tonight, after the final whistle, he stays behind. Walks into my office like he belongs here more than I do. His jersey clings to his chest, damp with sweat and victory. The lights are low. The city glows beyond the glass.

'I won the game for you,' he says, voice rough. 'Now I want my reward.'

I cross my arms. 'Name it. Bonus? Extension? Private jet?'

He steps closer. 'I want you. In your bed. Naked. Mine.'

A laugh escapes me, sharp and disbelieving. 'You’re delusional.'

His hand catches my wrist, pulls me against him. 'I’m overdue. And you’ve been watching me long enough to know you want it too.'

My breath hitches. This isn’t part of the game. This isn’t supposed to happen.

'Walk away,' I warn.

He leans in, lips brushing my ear. 'Or what? You’ll fire me? Go ahead. But you’ll still dream about this.'

Heat floods my veins. He’s right. And that’s what terrifies me.