I stop in front of Oliver’s locker. Compared to many of his teammates, his stall is organized and minimalistic. There’s a photo he keeps pinned up of his mother and Henry, both smiling at the camera, Oliver between them.
My eyes shift to a second drawing taped up beside it, a figure of Oliver holding up a trophy, drawn in crayon. Liam’s name signed across the bottom, proudly autographed.
My heart swells knowing that the interaction at the hospital meant enough to him that he kept the drawing and displayed it in his locker. For someone who works so hard to appear untouchable, there are pieces of his heart everywhere once you know where to look.
I reach out and brush my fingers along the edge of the paper.
“Do you have any idea what you did to me wearing that?” Oliver’s voice says from behind me.
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn around. He’s leaning in the doorway, kit swapped for dark jeans and a black shirt, eyes unblinking and completely focused on me. He doesn’t say anything. He just walks toward me, slow and deliberate, the intensity in his expression stealing every coherent thought from my brain.
I swallow.
“I… um…” I stammer. “Carlos and Sebastian said it was time I get my own kit. They picked it.”
His gaze drops to the jersey I’m wearing, and his jaw flexes, flickering with something possessive.
“They’re smarter than I thought.” He reaches up and brushes a finger along the collar of the jersey, just enough to feel it and send a shiver down my spine.
“You played amazing today,” I whisper.
“I know.” His eyes lock with mine. “Because ofyou.”
And then, without another word, he pulls me toward him like he can’t stand another second of space between us. Oliver’s hand slips beneath the hem of the jersey and slides up my back. His mouth is on mine—urgent and possessive—like the match was foreplay and this is what he’s really been playing for.
My back hits the locker stall and I don’t even care, especially not when his hands are on my thighs, gripping me like he can’t decide whether to lift me up or sink to his knees.
“Oliver,” I moan, breathless.
He looks at me, eyes darkened, as a growl rumbles from his chest. “You’re going to ruin me,” he whispers, like it’s a confession.
I press my mouth to his. “Good.”
His hands shift to peel my jeans off.
“Sit,” he says, voice low, tipping his head to the bench in front of his locker. I reach for the hem of the jersey, but Oliver’s hand clasps over mine. “Keep it on.”
I sit down, heart hammering, held in place by the weight of his gaze.
He kneels down in front of me, like I’m an altar of worship. His hands slide up my thighs, slow and steady. His mouth follows behind, planting soft kisses against my skin. As he trails higher and higher, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Do you like this?” he asks, dragging his thumb in a slow line across the inside of my thigh.
“Yes," I manage, voice trembling.
And then he moves deeper between my legs, worshipping me like I’m something sacred. He’s patient. Purposeful. Every touch is deliberate and drawn out. That makes it even more overwhelming somehow.
He kisses the inside of my knee, then higher and higher. My breath catches as his name leaves my lips. I grip the edges of the bench, hips already lifting toward him. I choke back the moans that desperately want to come out.
“Don’t do that,” he murmurs up at me. "I want to hear you.”
Fuck.
I obey, letting the moans spill out freely.
His hands grip my hips firmly, keeping me in place. My fingers twist into his hair. I tremble as his tongue traces patterns around my clit.
