Chapter 44: Overtime
The distant whistles and catcalls faded into the hum of the floodlights as the last of the players disappeared into the clubhouse. The pitch was suddenly, profoundly theirs. The air cooled quickly, raising goosebumps on Aurora’s arms beneath the oversized orange pinny.
Callum’s hand was still wrapped around hers, his grip firm, almost urgent. He didn’t lead her toward the exit. Instead, he turned, pulling her gently across the empty turf, their shadows stretching and merging like ink blots. His steps were deliberate, carrying them toward the lone goal at the far end.
“Where are we going?” Her voice sounded small in the vast, lit emptiness.
He didn’t answer. The taut white netting of the goal loomed before them. He stopped, finally releasing her hand only to place his own on the cold, painted metal of the post beside her head. He turned her, his body caging her in, his warmth a stark contrast to the chill of the metal at her back. The scent of him—clean sweat, grass, and something uniquely, essentially Callum—filled her senses.
She could feel the rapid thud of his heart against her own, or maybe it was hers. He was still breathing heavily from the match, his chest rising and falling. He looked down at her, his green eyes dark in the artificial light, all traces of the easy, cocky charm stripped away. Something raw and hungry lived there now.
“Tell me you love me again.” His voice was a low rasp, devoid of its usual playful edge.
It wasn’t a question. It was a demand, carved out of a deep, sudden need she recognized because she felt it too. The fluttering, uncertain thing between them had solidified on this pitch tonight, and it terrified him as much as it thrilled her.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came. The words from before, whispered in the dark of her kitchen, felt too fragile for this arena. He saw her hesitation, and a flicker of something like pain crossed his features.
He kissed her instead. It wasn’t the sweet, forehead kiss of possession. This was claiming of a different, desperate kind. His mouth was hot and insistent, his hands coming up to frame her face, his thumbs brushing the arches of her cheeks. She could taste the salt on his lips, feel the slight graze of stubble. A soft noise escaped her, and she felt him smile against her mouth, a fleeting, triumphant thing.
She kissed him back, her hands fisting in the damp fabric of his training shirt. The orange pinny rustled loudly, a ridiculous banner caught between them. He broke the kiss with a gruff sound, his hands dropping to her waist. In one swift movement, he grabbed the hem of the pinny and pulled it up and over her head, tossing the bright cloth aside where it landed on the pristine turf like a discarded flag.
“Better,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over her. Her old university sweatshirt was damp with sweat, her hair a wild mess from the game and his hands. He looked at her like she was something priceless.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into her hair, the other splayed against the small of her back, pressing her into him. The metal goalpost dug into her spine, a sharp counterpoint to the yielding warmth of his body. His teeth grazed her lower lip, a hint of bite that made her gasp, and he swallowed the sound.
“Callum,” she managed, the word muffled against his mouth.
“Say it,” he growled, his lips moving to her jaw, then the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. “Here.Now. I need to hear it when you’re not half-asleep and I’m not about to burn your kitchen down.”
His mouth was on her skin, his breaths hot. She could feel the netting of the goal tangling in her borrowed trainers, anchoring them to this spot. The world had narrowed to the circle of floodlight, the smell of him, the hard plane of his chest under her palms. All her overthinking, all the pages of carefully constructed dialogue in her manuscript, evaporated. There was only this visceral, undeniable truth.
“I love you.” The words were clear, louder than she’d intended. They hung in the cool air between them.He went very still. His head lifted slowly, and he searched her face, his expression utterly open, stripped bare. The famous confidence, the practiced smirk, was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a vulnerability that made her heart clench.
“Yeah?” The single word was thick.
“Yeah.” She pushed a sweaty strand of hair from his forehead. “Even when you’re being an arrogant, demanding…”
He cut her off with another kiss, but this one was different. Softer.Gratifying. A silent thank you. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in white puffs. The intensity ebbed, leaving a shaky, profound calm in its wake.
“They’re going to lock up,” she whispered after a moment, her fingers tracing the line of his shoulder.
“Let them.” But he sighed, leaning back. He kept an arm around her, stooping to pick up the discarded pinny. He didn’t hand it to her. He just held it, looking from the cloth to her, a slow, genuine smile finally touching his lips. “You were good out there. For a writer.”
She nudged him with her shoulder. “And you were alright. For a pro.”
He laughed, the sound echoing wonderfully in the empty space. He slung the pinny over his shoulder and took her hand again. They walked off the pitch together, their footsteps the only sound. He collected their things from the sideline—her glasses, her bag—with a casual domesticity that felt as intimate as anything that had just happened.
The drive back was quiet, the car filled with a warm, comfortable silence. The kind that doesn’t need filling. He drove one-handed, the other resting on her thigh, his thumb making absent, soothing circles through the fabric of her leggings.
Back at his house, he headed straight for the shower. Aurora stood in the vast, minimalist kitchen, listening to the water run upstairs. She made tea, her movements automatic. Her body felt pleasantly weary, her mind strangely, perfectly quiet.
He came down later, hair damp, wearing gray sweatpants and a soft-looking black t-shirt. He smelled of soap and warmth. He wordlessly took the mug she offered, his eyes scanning her face.
“You’re staying,” he said. It wasn’t quite a question.
“I have to work tomorrow,” she said, but the protest was weak. Her manuscript was next door, waiting. The lonely glow of her laptop in her quiet studio suddenly felt like a lifetime away.
“Bring it here.” He sipped his tea. “The couch is bigger. The coffee is better. I’ll be quiet. I’ll even make you that omelet I promised. The non-burnt version.”
She looked at him, this man who commanded stadiums and now stood in his kitchen negotiating for her company with the hesitant hope of a boy. The contract was a joke between them now. This was the real negotiation. The quiet, daily choosing of each other.
“Okay,” she said.
A ghost of his old smirk returned. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” She smiled into her mug. “But I’m grading your omelet technique. Strictly.”
He put his mug down and crossed the space between them, pulling her into a clean, warm hug. He just held her, his chin resting on the top of her head. “Deal.”
Later, curled on the vast sofa with her laptop balanced on a cushion, she found the words flowing with an ease that had eluded her for months. Across from her, Callum scrolled through match footage on a tablet, headphones on, periodically glancing up at her. Every time he did, a small, private smile would touch his lips.
The story on her screen finally felt alive. It had texture, conflict, a heartbeat. It had the scent of grass and sweat, the taste of salt, the cold bite of metal against your back, and the profound warmth of a hand simply resting on your leg, saying everything without saying a word.
She typed late into the night, the only sounds the soft tap of keys and the distant hum of the city beyond the windows. He never once told her to quiet down.