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The time we’ve spent together has given me the opportunity to observe him. Covertly, of course, because if he caught me staring at him, he’d never let me live it down and his ego is big enough as it is.
He wasn’t lying when he said was serious about soccer. There’s a different side of him that comes to life on the field.
His smiles are harder to come by, his entire attention is dedicated to being the best.
The best player, the best captain, the best coach.
I’m surprised by how in sync we seem to be. Our bodies move the same way, our brains often reacting similarly to a play.
Part of that is him coaching me, but there’s a natural chemistry there that shines through.
I wonder if he notices it.
Probably not with how absorbed he is when we play.
There’s a level of intensity to his game play that’s at odds with his playful smiles, his carefree personality.
It reminds me of the ferocity with which he pursues me.
That thought has anticipation swirling in my stomach.
Over the past week, he’s continued his usual flirty banter with as much gusto as before.
The main difference is we haven’t had any more physical encounters. He’s been careful not to touch me, almost like he waits for me to come to him.
But I catch him staring at me from across the field during team practices.
When I turn to look at him, I expect him to look away, pretending he wasn’t staring.
He never does.
He stands there, unashamed of the way he watches me.
Sometimes he waves cockily.
I have to turn around before he sees the stupid smile that pulls at the corner of my lips.
He looks especially sinful at our session today. He’s currently standing with his hands on his hips, breathing heavily as he tries to catch his breath.
My eyes are caught on his hands, veiny and large and adorned with a couple silver rings.
The skin on my neck tingles at the memory of being clasped in his strong grip.
The feeling of swallowing against his hand, of knowing if he squeezed, if he added just a little bit of pressure, that I wouldn’t be able to breathe.
His hands move to the end of his jersey where they grab the hem and bring it up to wipe the sweat from his brow.
The movement reveals the expanse of his stomach and chest and has saliva drying in my throat and heat pooling in my lower abdomen.
Sinewy abs ripple along the pane of his abdomen, lean and defined, up to his muscular chest.
His skin shines golden under the cool sun, his whole torso devoid of any hair except for a thin stripe starting at his belly button and disappearing below the waistband of his shorts.
He looks like a man.
One I want to get my mouth on as soon as possible.
Okay.Okay. Enough of that.
