I've protected what's mine my whole career. Savage tackles on the pitch. Lethal glares off it. Touch him and die-that's the vow etched in every muscle, every scar from the isolation that armored my heart long before I met him.

The star defender on my team. Straight as the lines we defend. Haunted by desires he won't name, even to himself. I've watched him deny it for years-the tension in his locked jaw after a win, the way his gaze lingers too long in the locker room steam. Until one floodlit night in the villa shadows, our bodies collide. Not by accident. Slick with sweat, deliberate surrender. My fingers twist in his damp jersey, dragging him to the edge of a breathless near-kiss. He trembles. Terrified. Mine.

Brothers-in-arms under the roar of Premier League crowds. That's our cover. But every stolen touch demands total possession. Fingers laced publicly under stadium lights, daring the macho code to snap. His bi awakening cracks open like a fresh wound-raw hunger he can't confess without shattering his unshakeable self-image. I'm the forbidden blaze. The salvation from his isolation. Low growl of devotion: mine to protect, mine to ruin. Our secret throbs with paradox-teammates devouring each other while the world cheers our brotherhood.

He needs to surrender. Deeply. Completely. But his career glory hangs in the balance, and his fears whisper louder than the crowds. What if the man who owns my soul walks away? Or worse-what if they force him to?