Chapter 10: Post-Game Claiming
The final whistle was a chorus of their own voices, breathless and laughing. Aurora pulled the red pinnie over her head, her curls escaping in a static-charged halo. The sweat at the small of her back had cooled, leaving a pleasant, tired ache in her muscles. Leo clapped her on the shoulder, a solid, comradely thump that rocked her forward.
“You have a foot, guiri,” he said, grinning. “Next time, wear proper shoes, eh?”
“Next time, bring better players,” she shot back, her smile taking the sting out of it. The other men chuckled, gathering their bags and water bottles, casting curious but friendly glances at the hooded figure by the fence.
Callum hadn’t moved. He stood with his hands in his pockets, a spectator statue. As the group dispersed, calling out farewells in Spanish, Aurora grabbed her own bag and walked toward him. The artificial turf gave way to cracked asphalt. The scent of grilled meat from a nearby vent grew stronger, mixing with the smell of her own exertion.
“Scouting for talent?” she asked, stopping a few feet away. Her heart was doing a strange, traitorous rhythm against her ribs.
He pushed his hood back. The green of his eyes was startling under the harsh floodlights. He didn’t smile. The look on his face was one of raw, unmasked hunger, an intensity that erased the charming celebrity from his features and left only the man beneath. It stole the air from her lungs.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “I found some.”
In two long strides, he closed the distance between them. His hand came up to cradle the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the damp wisps of hair at her nape. There was no slow bend, no teasing question. His mouth found hers with a claim that was absolute.
It wasn’t the careful kiss from the plane. This was all heat and urgency, a translation of everything they’d just watched and felt. The noise of the city, the distant hum of traffic, the shouts from a nearby bar—it all faded into a dull roar. All she could taste was him, all she could feel was the cold chain-link against her back and the solid, warm weight of him against her front.
His other hand splayed across her hip, pulling her into him. She could feel the hard evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against her, a blunt, thrilling truth. A sharp whistle cut the air from somewhere down the street, followed by a laugh. Callum growled, a low sound in his throat, and deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping past her lips. The world shrank to the points of contact: lips, hands, hips, the relentless press of him.
When he finally broke away, they were both breathing raggedly. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes squeezed shut. “Jesus, Aurora.”
“I’m pretty sure that was all you,” she managed, her voice unsteady.
He opened his eyes, their gaze so close it blurred. “Watching you out there… You had no idea, did you? How completely in command you looked. It was…”
“A turn-on?” she supplied, a shaky attempt at her usual tone.
“A revelation,” he corrected, his thumb stroking her jaw. “I’ve never seen that version of you. The one that isn’t thinking. The one that just… is.”
He kissed her again, softer this time, but the undercurrent of need was still there, a live wire humming between them. His hand slid from her hip to the small of her back, tracing the curve of her spine through the thick wool of her sweater. She arched into the touch, a small, involuntary sound escaping her.
It was that sound that brought her crashing back. The catcall from the street echoed in her memory. The floodlights.The public park. They were exposed on three sides.
She placed her palms flat against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart through his t-shirt. “Callum. Stop.”
He stilled instantly, pulling back just enough to search her face. “What’s wrong?”
“We’re on a street corner,” she whispered, her eyes darting to a passing car. “And you are… you. A single photo of Callum Nordskov grinding against a random woman in a Madrid park could end up on six continents in twenty minutes. With a very unflattering caption.”
His jaw tightened, frustration warring with understanding. He exhaled sharply, a plume of steam in the cool night air. “Right. The bubble.” He said the word like a curse. His hands loosened but didn’t let go, as if he couldn’t make himself break the final point of contact.
“The very expensive, very private bubble,” she said, gently extricating herself. The space between them felt suddenly cold. “Let’s go back to it. Please.”
He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture leaving it even more disheveled. For a long moment, he just looked at her—flushed, glasses slightly fogged, hair a wild mess from his hands and the game, wearing a sweater three sizes too big. A slow, devastating smile finally broke through. “Okay.”
He took her bag from her, slinging it over his shoulder with his own. He didn’t take her hand, mindful now of eyes. They walked in a charged silence the two blocks to where his innocuous rented sedan was parked. The mundane act of unlocking the doors, of sliding into the passenger seat, felt absurdly intimate after the fever pitch by the fence.
He started the engine but didn’t pull out. The interior light had switched off, leaving them in the soft gloom of a streetlamp. The sounds of the city were muffled now, sealed behind glass.
“For the record,” he said, staring straight ahead at the dashboard, “the caption wouldn’t say ‘random woman.’ It would say ‘lucky bastard.’”
Aurora laughed, the tension dissolving into something warmer, spiked with anticipation. “Just drive, Nordskov.”
He drove. Not with the frantic speed of their exit from the pitch, but with a deliberate control that was somehow more telling. Every stoplight felt like a lifetime. Every shift of his body in the driver’s seat was a whisper against the quiet.
When the hotel valet took the keys, Callum’s hand found the small of her back, a proprietary and guiding touch. Through the glittering, silent lobby, up the private elevator. The doors slid open directly into their suite. He locked them behind them with a definitive click.
The plush, silent room enveloped them. The city was a tapestry of light far below, impersonal and distant.
He turned to her. The playful smirk was gone. The controlled athlete from the car was gone. What was left was the man from the fence, his need laid bare and undiluted by any audience.
“No more interruptions,” he said, the words a promise and a question.
Aurora reached up and took off her glasses, setting them blindly on a console table. Her vision softened, the edges of the room blurring. She saw him clearly enough.
“No more interruptions,” she agreed.