Baz-

>>> holy shit did you see that pass?

>>> I can't believe Dev got away with that

>>> definitely should've been carded

>>> Pitch got lucky on that last call. bastard.

>>> I can't believe they're winning

>>> it's the last five minutes????? why tf did Pitch feel the need to get ANOTHER yellow card??

>>> this is ridiculous. I can't believe u guessed it perfectly

My phone buzzes and I smirk as I look at it again.

>>> what could he possibly have to gain from tripping that poor guy???

A lot, I think. I'm still in my kitt and my boots are laced. The locker room air is dense with steam from the showers and the air is heavy with sweat. I grin down at my phone like an absolute moron until Dev shoves me in the direction of the shower. He's been watching me for far too long. I don't blame him, I look like an idiot. The rest of the team is leaving or already gone.

I shove my phone into my duffel and let my face settle. I peel my shirt off and toss it in the bin and take the fastest shower of my life. Then, I'm jogging up the steps to my flat, my hair still dripping onto my shoulders. I pull up my messages and read through the latest.

>>> Pitch played like an animal

>>> srsly wtf the replays are even more vicious in slow-mo

I grin rips across my face and I text back.

<<< You seriously can't of expected him to let Lutton's team win

>>> Lutton's defense is far superior to Watford's

>>> rivalry be damned

>>> I would've loved to see them kick Watford's ass

<<< Their sweeper's never in the right spot, it leaves them open

<<< It's not much of a rivalry when Watford's beaten them for the past six games

>>> Still the goal from the second half was insanely lucky

<<< Lucky? Pitch set DeVon up perfectly

And I did too. There's no way DeVon would've made the shot without me.

>>> that's beside the point

>>> you won the bet :(

>>> I seem to be losing a lot of them these days

A tendril of anticipation curls in my chest. Last night when I opened the picture I sloshed tea all over my carpet. When he bumped into me at the party he was drunk off his arse. He was gorgeous, made entirely of bronze and flecked with moles. Four moles lined a trail down his neck and disappeared under the collar of his jersey. Of my jersey. I wanted to trace the line to his sternum with the flat of my tongue, I wanted to lick the salt from his body until I reached fabric. He was so drunk he didn't even recognize me. His friend certainly did. From his texts it doesn't sound like she's told him. Good, I'd like to see where this goes without my name getting in the way.

He basically fell in my lap last night, tousled hair tacky with sweat and reeking of beer. Then he had the nerve to talk shit about me while wearing my name printed to his shoulder blades and swathed in my colors. I've never been so turned on in my entire life.

My phone buzzes and I open the attachment with shaking hands. The background is dark with only one overhead light. He's holding his phone with one hand and using the other to ruck up his shirt, the hem of it's pushed up so high that it brushes his nipples. I'm delighted to see that the moles don't stop at his neck. Clusters of freckles bookmark spots that I want to sink my teeth into. Dark pants ride low on his hips. He's gorgeous. The dim light accentuates the dips and crests of his body. I let my eyes trace the shadows to the valley bracketed by his hips. A thin line of bronze hair disappears into the top of his pants and my pulse jumps. My entire body has been lit on fire.

Only the jut of his chin is visible in the top of the frame, depriving me of his curls. I hate that I'm already this invested. I don't know anything about him except that he hates me and that I'm desperately attracted to him. Fiona would give me hell for this. "Too thirsty for your own good", she'd say. She'd be absolutely right.

I've been texting the man, whose name I still don't know, all through the week. A notification bubble greets me in the morning, after practice, and during meals. He's full of meaningless chatter. We spend half an hour arguing over Niall's terrible new haircut and Dev's ridiculous Instagram post. The conversation never extends beyond trivial things, but I smile every time my phone buzzes like one of Pavlov's dogs. I find myself checking my phone even when it doesn't buzz. I have to beat down my disappointment when there's nothing there to my humiliation. Dev's been giving me odd looks all week, but I couldn't care less. Let him think I'm texting with Bowie's ghost for all I care.

I've just gotten home from Thursday night practice when my phone buzzes. I quickly cross the room, throwing my coat onto the hook and slipping off my shoes. I heat up a leftover curry container (my dinner for the night) and unlock my phone. No texts from him, but a couple angry one-liners from Fiona. I don't respond and flick through channels until I settle on Game of Thrones. My phone buzzes a couple episodes in.

>>> oh god

>>> noooooo

>>> fuck me

>>> why can't I make one goddam pancake without fucking up one of the sides?!

<<< it's 11:22

>>> if I want pancakes in the morning I need to make them now

>>> Penny says I need to oil the pan more than once??

I've learned that Penelope is his friend from the party. She's also his roommate, the poor woman must have unmatched patience.

>>> that's it. I'm done.

>>> this is impossible

>>> can u cook?

>>> I sure as hell can't and I work in foods

Now that surprises me. He's made it abundantly clear that he loves food, but I can't picture him behind a counter working an 8-5.

<<< where?

It takes a few minutes for him to respond and I can see him with losing a battle with an undercooked pancake, batter dripping down his freckled elbows.

>>> Mummer's Coffee

I've been there before, when I went to the university. It's right across from the quad and always bustling with people on Sundays. Their coffee is subpar at best, but the scones are incredible. The image of him handing over styrofoam cups of coffee to overworked college students fills my chest.

>>> fuck

>>> help me

>>> what tf am I doing wrong??

I ask for pictures, then send the proper corrections to fix them: wait to flip it until you see bubbles, the heat's on too high, try using a soup ladle for uniform pancakes. By the time a picture of a wobbling stack of pancakes pops up onto my screen the credits of an unwatched episode are rolling and my cheeks are sore from smiling. It's the sort of private smile I would never allow in public. It's common knowledge that I have two facial expressions: condescension and annoyance. Smiles are private and rare, and this one's reserved for the man that blows up my inbox with random facts and observations. The man that sends me pictures of dogs he sees on walks. The man that calls me out whenever I say something crass in my interviews, the man that isn't afraid to call my bluff. The man that texts me trivial things about his day and asks to hear about mine in return. My cheeks hurt for the man that makes my chest ache and my heart bleed. 

A/N: thank you for continuing to follow this story! I'm planning on at least updating this weekly, if not sooner. Let me know if you enjoyed the new chapter! <3