AllFreeNovel
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With her admission that she’s mine and the previous ambiguity laid to rest, the possessiveness I feel for her purrs loudly in my chest.
I already know a few weeks with her won’t be enough and I can’t see myself letting her go anytime soon.
There’s a slight pinch in my chest at the thought of giving her up that I won’t acknowledge and ignore.
I’m not getting any more emotionally attached than I already am. I can’t.
“What’s up?”
“We didn’t talk about your match tonight,” she says. “I want to see the goals you scored.”
I close my eyes with another groan, hiding my smile behind a grimace. She’s even more obsessed than I am.
“This couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“Come on,” She replies, with a gentle nudge to my ribs, “I can’t sleep.” She says, softly.
“And watching game tape is a good alternative to sleep?”
“Of course,” she counters, “I need to make sure you’re as good as you claim to be.”
I laugh and reach for my phone on the bedside table. Mathews records all our matches and sends us a link for studying game film so I should have the footage handy.
“I am.” I tell her, clicking into the email at the top of my inbox.
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She replies haughtily, making me laugh again.
I press play on the long highlight reel, about fifteen minutes in length, and we start watching. We’re mostly quiet except every so often when Thayer will comment on a play or I’ll point out something I want her to look at.
Six minutes into the video, I score my first goal, a volley into the top right corner from fifteen feet away.
“Holy shit.” She says, sucking in a breath as she drags her finger on the timeline bar and rewinds the video back fifteen seconds.
She watches it again a couple more times, taking in the preceding play that led to the goal and the goal itself. There’s something about observing her entranced by me that makes my dick hard.
She lets the video play and it’s basically a montage of close up and mid shots of me engaging in the next plays. It looks like my own personal highlight reel.
“Someone stayed close to you.” She says with a sniff. “Was a member of your fan club behind the camera?”
I smirk at the pouty tone of her voice. “Jealous?”
“Hardly.” She scoffs. “There are ten other players on your team, I’m just saying I think they’d appreciate the limelight for a couple frames.”
“I scored all three of our goals.” I point out in defense of the videographer.
“And that’s probably because the rest of your team feels undervalued which affects their performance.” She counters, her hand flying wildly, “Whoever the camerawoman is, maybe she could point the camera towards them and stop ogling you for a second.”
“I believe my middle aged football coach was behind the camera.”
“Well…”
I laugh as her words freeze on her lips before her mouth slams shut when she can’t find an adequate response to my statement.
She looks back towards the screen and watches for a few more seconds before she pauses the video.
“Wait a minute.” She says, rewinding the video back another fifteen seconds.
“What?” I ask.
