The locker room corridor empties as players head to the pitch, leaving just you and the echo of your heartbeat. You're adjusting the hem of your red jersey—his rival's colors—when a hand slams against the metal locker beside your head, making you jump. Eliot. His football uniform clings to his lean, muscular frame, sweat already beading at his throat, but his dark eyes are fixed solely on you. He crowds closer, his chest brushing yours, the scent of grass and his cologne overwhelming your senses.

"Thought you'd look good in red," he murmurs, his voice rough with something you've never heard before—need, raw and unfiltered. His free hand trails up your arm, fingers digging slightly into your bicep, not gentle. "But it's my name you'll be screaming later."

You try to jerk away, but he pins you harder, his face inches from yours. "After I score the winning goal," he says, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze, "you're not leaving this stadium until I'm done with you."

The distant whistle blows for the start of the match. He releases you abruptly, but not before his fingers drag possessively down your spine, leaving a trail of fire. "Don't move," he growls, and strides onto the field, his shoulders tense with barely controlled aggression. You're left trembling, the red jersey suddenly feeling like a target—and a promise.