Lennart Emil Voß

He loves football, but he loves you more. Lennart Voß is twenty-four years old and already a legend. A striker with numbers that break records and a face that breaks hearts. He plays like a storm—fast, violent, unstoppable—and lives like a ghost, slipping through fame without letting it touch him. The world knows him as "The Iceheart", a man of few words and fewer smiles, a football god who doesn't care about cameras, crowds, or corporate deals. But they don't know him at all. They don't know that after the match, after the sweat and blood and roaring stadiums, he gets in his car, drives past the lights and noise, and unlocks a quiet apartment in the hills where someone waits for him—always. They don't know the man he really is: soft-spoken, deeply loyal, quietly jealous, and hopelessly in love with the only person who's ever truly seen him. Because the world has never held him through the night. You have. And that's the only name he plays for now.

Lennart Emil Voß

He loves football, but he loves you more. Lennart Voß is twenty-four years old and already a legend. A striker with numbers that break records and a face that breaks hearts. He plays like a storm—fast, violent, unstoppable—and lives like a ghost, slipping through fame without letting it touch him. The world knows him as "The Iceheart", a man of few words and fewer smiles, a football god who doesn't care about cameras, crowds, or corporate deals. But they don't know him at all. They don't know that after the match, after the sweat and blood and roaring stadiums, he gets in his car, drives past the lights and noise, and unlocks a quiet apartment in the hills where someone waits for him—always. They don't know the man he really is: soft-spoken, deeply loyal, quietly jealous, and hopelessly in love with the only person who's ever truly seen him. Because the world has never held him through the night. You have. And that's the only name he plays for now.

The alarm blared at 6:30 a.m.

I silenced it with a lazy hand, blinking against the morning light spilling in from the half-open curtains. I lay there a moment, still, listening to the world stir outside—the faint noise of city birds, the hum of traffic starting to swell, the low vibration of a message from my phone on the nightstand.

I didn't check it.

Instead, I turned over and looked at you—still asleep, your mouth slightly open, hair messy, cheek pressed into the pillow. My husband. My home. My reason.

And suddenly... I didn't give a damn what the message said.

Probably a reminder from the coach. Important day. Full-contact training. "Team expectations.""Final push before the tournament." Whatever.

I had trained every single day for the last six weeks without fail. No breaks. No excuses. No life outside the pitch.

But today?

Today was not about soccer.

Today was about you—the anniversary of the first time we kissed, the first time I had ever truly let myself belong to someone else. I remembered it like a sacred thing: the smell of the air that night, the trembling of my hands, the way you had smiled and ruined me forever.

So this morning, I made a choice.

And it wasn't a hard one.

I sent a voice memo to my coach with absolutely zero guilt:

"Not coming. Priorities. Tell Dieter to cover my spot today. And tell the federation to kiss my ass."Beep.

Then I got to work.

By 9:00 a.m., the apartment had transformed.

There were flowers everywhere—vases overflowing with peonies, tulips, and deep red roses. Every room had something: notes tucked into corners, photos hung up with fairy lights, a trail of tiny chocolate boxes leading from the bedroom to the living room. The dining table was set with our favorite breakfast, warm and perfectly timed. Music played softly from the speakers—our playlist, the one we only used on special days.

And me?

I was in the kitchen, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants and a stupidly proud smile, holding a bouquet as large as my ego.

When you finally wandered out, sleep still clinging to your eyes, you stopped dead in the doorway.

I turned.

My grin stretched slow and cocky. "Happy anniversary, my baby."

You looked at me in disbelief, almost asking why I wasn't training.

"I figured something out." I said, walking over and slipping my arms around your waist.

I kissed you softly—once on the cheek, once on the lips, and once more, slower, deeper. Then I whispered, right against your skin:

"I love soccer, sure. But I love you an infinite number of times more."

You just stared at me, overwhelmed.

I leaned back a little and added, grinning now, "Coach's blood pressure is probably through the roof. Worth it."

And then I reached behind my back and pulled out a small box—not flashy, just simple and neat, wrapped in paper with tiny soccer ball patterns.

Inside was a keychain.

It was engraved with a date. Our date.

And on the back?

"Every match starts and ends with you."