I keep telling myself the collisions on the pitch are nothing more than strategy between teammates. Fergus has a way of locking his body against mine that makes my guarded heart race with the one thing I swore I would never admit needing from anyone.

The shadowed equipment room is where he gets his hands on me and waits me out. The club would end us both if anyone found out, yet the certainty in his grip is exactly the control I have spent years pretending I did not crave from him. The weight of his presence makes every denial I have practiced feel like a lie I can no longer tell.

I should step back before this goes further. My body refuses to move.