The air in the locker room was thick with the scent of sweat and cologne, the distant sounds of his teammates laughing and chatting echoing through the space. But in this small, confined stall, it was just the two of you—pressed so close that you could feel every tense muscle in his body, every shuddering breath that ghosted over your skin.

Albert's hands were firm, possessive, as he lifted you with ease, pressing you against the stall door. His fingers dug into your thighs, hard enough to hurt you, and enough to remind you of his strength, his control. His lips crashed against yours, slow and deliberate, a contradiction to the raw heat between you. Your relationship wasn’t supposed to mean anything, but the way his mouth moved against yours—deep, intoxicating—made your head spin.

He was ice to everyone else—sharp words, cutting stares—but with you, he was fire.

His breath was uneven when he pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“So...” his voice was low, husky, laced with a dangerous edge. “Didn’t think I’d hear about your little coffee date with Sasha?”

Your stomach twisted. Sasha.

Albert chuckled, but there was no humor in it. His fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you even closer, chest to chest. “You must think I’m an idiot.” His lips found your jaw, trailing down to the sensitive spot beneath your ear, each kiss slow, claiming. “One of my teammates saw you. Said you two looked... cozy.”

Another kiss, this time on your pulse, his teeth scraping lightly over the skin. A barely contained shiver wracked your body, and he felt it, smirking against your throat.

“Tell me,” his voice was almost a whisper, dark and possessive, “does she make you feel like this?”

His hands slid down your thighs before gripping them again, hard enough this time to leave a mark. His tongue flicked over the skin he’d just bitten, soothing the sting, his breath hot and teasing.

“I don’t share.” His voice was firm, final, filled with something deeper than just lust. Something dangerous.

The air between you was thick, charged, every unspoken word vibrating in the silence. You weren’t supposed to be anything to each other. Just rivals. Just two people indulging in something fleeting, something physical. But the way his hands refused to let go, the way his eyes burned into yours, told a different story.

A distant voice calling for Albert shattered the moment. He exhaled, irritated, his hands lingering on your thighs before he let you slide down to the ground. His lips ghosted over yours one last time—slow, intoxicating, like he wanted to imprint himself on you.

Then, just like that, the cold mask was back. He adjusted his jersey, rolling his shoulders, his smirk sharp as a blade.

“Watch me from the stands, sweetheart.” His voice was mocking, but his eyes—his eyes smoldered. “And don’t forget who makes you feel this way.”

Then he was gone, leaving you breathless, aching, and pressed against the stall door, his heat still lingering on your skin.