Chapter 7: Stolen Victory
The morning light cut across the marble countertop in sharp, clean angles. Aurora sat cross-legged on it, the cool stone seeping through the thin fabric of Callum’s game-worn jersey, the only thing she wore. Number 10. It smelled like him—clean sweat, fabric softener, and something else, something metallic and green like the pitch.
She watched him move around the kitchen. Shirtless, sleep-tousled, a line of concentration between his brows as he navigated the sleek, unfamiliar territory of his own appliances. He was burning something. The smoky scent of charring butter mixed with the rich aroma of coffee.
“You’re murdering those eggs,” she observed, dipping a spoon into a jar of expensive-looking blackberry jam.
He didn’t look up from the pan. “They’re practicing their defensive formations. Very tactical.”
“They’re cement.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. He’d been like this all morning: quiet, focused, physically present but mentally somewhere else. He’d woken before her, she was sure of it. She’d found him standing at the wall of windows, just watching the river, his back a tense landscape. Now, he was cooking with the same intense precision he applied to a free kick.
She licked the sweet, sharp jam from her fingers, one by one. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was thick. Last night existed in the space between them, a tangible, charged thing. She’d dissected it in the hazy pre-dawn, every touch, every word. I’ve got you.Stay anyway.
Callum abandoned the spatula in the sizzling pan and turned. He leaned back against the opposite counter, arms crossed over his chest, and just looked at her. His gaze traveled from her messy, morning-curled hair, over the draped fabric of the jersey that swallowed her frame, down to her bare feet. The inspection was thorough, intimate. It made her skin prickle.
He pushed off the counter and closed the distance in two strides. Before she could speak, he caged her between his arms, his hands flat on the marble on either side of her hips. He leaned in, his eyes dropping to her mouth, still gleaming faintly with jam.
“You taste like stolen victory,” he growled, his voice still rough with sleep, and pressed his mouth to hers.
The kiss was slow, deep, and deliberately sweet. He licked the residue from her lips, a low hum of approval vibrating in his chest. The smoky smell of the burning eggs was suddenly inconsequential. Her hands came up to his shoulders, the muscles there hard and warm under her palms. His own hands slid from the counter up her bare thighs beneath the hem of the jersey, his thumbs tracing idle circles on her skin.
The spatula hissed in protest behind him. Something acrid joined the air.
She broke the kiss, breathless. “Callum. The eggs are committing suicide.”
“Let them,” he murmured against her jaw, his lips traveling down her neck.
A laugh escaped her, nervous and bright. She pushed lightly at his chest. “I’m serious. You’ll set off the fire suppression system. We’ll be drenched and explaining it to your very judgy decorator.”
He sighed, a puff of warm air against her collarbone, and reluctantly pulled back. He gave the pan a disgusted look, turned off the burner, and dumped the entire blackened mess into the sink. It landed with a defeated sizzle.
“Breakfast is canceled,” he announced, turning back to her. His eyes were darker now, the green almost submerged. He slid his hands back up her thighs, his fingers curling possessively. “New plan.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was the part where it got complicated. Where the fantasy of the night collided with the fluorescent reality of morning. She could feel the words bubbling up, the self-sabotaging need to define, to categorize, to retreat.
“I don’t… I don’t usually do this,” she blurted out, the sentence awkward and stiff.
He went perfectly still. For a second, she saw something flicker in his eyes—not offense, but a kind of wary understanding. Then, he threw his head back and laughed. It wasn’t a mocking sound; it was surprised, genuinely delighted.
“Sweetheart,” he said, grinning, his fingers giving her hips a slight squeeze. “Neither do I.”
He said it so simply. It hung there, dissolving her prepared speech about boundaries and writing deadlines and the insanity of getting involved with a global celebrity. He leaned his forehead against hers, his smile softening.
“The ‘playboy’ thing is ninety percent PR and ten percent me being twenty-two and stupid,” he said, his voice dropping. “I don’t bring people here. I don’t make breakfast for people. I don’t have jam in my fridge.” He glanced at the jar. “Where did that even come from?”
“The minibar psycho-fridge,” she said weakly, her mind reeling.
“Right.” He brushed his nose against hers. “Point is, this,” he gestured between them, “isn’t usual. For either of us. So maybe we could just… not know what we’re doing. Together.”
It was the most vulnerable thing he’d said to her. It mirrored the quiet panic in her own chest. She searched his face, the openness there, the slight tension in his jaw waiting for her response.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He kissed her again, briefly, a seal on the agreement. Then he stepped back, the absence of his heat making her shiver. He reached for the coffee pot, poured two mugs, and handed one to her. His fingers brushed hers.
“So,” he said, leaning back against the sink, watching her over the rim of his mug. “What’s the verdict on last night’s match? Full, brutal analyst mode. I can take it.”
The shift was deliberate. A lifeline back to familiar ground. She grasped it, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease. She took a sip of coffee, burned her tongue, and embraced the distraction.
“Your first-half passing was atrocious. You were forcing everything through the middle like you had personal beef with their defensive line. The second-half adjustment was good, but it shouldn’t have taken forty-five minutes to realize they were playing a high press. Your coach must have been screaming.”
He listened, nodding, a real smile playing on his lips now. “He was. He’s got a voice like a chainsaw. What about the goal?”
“The goal,” she said, setting her mug down, “was inevitable. The moment you got that space, it was over. It was… a beautiful shot.” She felt herself blush, saying it. It felt like admitting too much.
His smile turned tender. “You watched. From the box. In my jersey.”
“I was incognito,” she retorted, pulling the fabric away from her chest and looking down at the giant number. “Clearly.”
He chuckled, the sound rich and warm in the sun-filled kitchen. He pushed off the sink and came to stand in front of her again, gently nudging her knees apart to step between them. He took her mug and set it aside, then took her hands in his. His were so much bigger, scarred and calloused.
“I have training this afternoon. Late. And we fly to Madrid tomorrow for the Champions League tie.”
The real world crashed in, cold and administrative. She tried to pull her hands back, but he held them firm.
“I have a chapter to murder,” she said, aiming for lightness. “And my own coffee maker that doesn’t judge me.”
“Come with me.”
The question—no, the statement—hung in the air.Simple. Impossible.
“To Madrid,” she said flatly.
“To the training ground today. Then to Madrid.” He said it like it was obvious. Like he was asking her to walk to the corner shop. “You can sit in the stands. Or the lounge. You can write. You can tell me what I’m doing wrong in real time. No one will bother you.”
“Callum,” she said, her voice thin. “The press.Your team. Your… everything. I’m a mess in a borrowed jersey who can’t see without her glasses. I am not equipped for that world.”
“I’m not asking you to be equipped for it,” he said, his thumbs stroking her knuckles. “I’m asking you to be in mine. For a few days. As you are.” He released one of her hands to tap the frame of her glasses, which she’d retrieved earlier. “Smudges and all.”
Her heart was a wild, fluttering thing. It was insane. Reckless. The kind of thing her character would do in a first draft she’d later delete for being unrealistic.
“What about my peace? My quiet neighborhood? My escape from chaos?”
He looked around the stark, silent penthouse, then back at her, his expression sincere. “You can have all the quiet you want. I’ll be running drills. It’s very boring to watch, honestly. And Madrid… we’ll be in a hotel. You can order room service and not answer the door.”
She stared at him. He was offering her a front-row seat to his real life, not the curated version. The boring, grueling, lonely bits. He was asking her to see it.
The spatula lay in the ruined pan. His soccer ball sat on the counter by the fruit bowl, a single touch of personality in the sterile room. He was waiting, not pushing, just letting the offer sit between them.
“Okay,” she heard herself say again, the word leaving her lips before her brain could veto it.
This time, his smile didn’t just light up his face; it lit up the whole sterile, ugly, beautiful room. He kissed her, a quick, hard press of lips.
“Good,” he said, pulling back, his eyes alight. “Now, go put on something less… distracting.” He plucked at the jersey. “I’ll find you a pass. And for god’s sake, wear your own clothes. You can’t show up to my workplace smelling like me.”
She slid off the counter, her bare feet hitting the cool floor. As she walked back toward the bedroom to find her scattered clothes, the reality of what she’d just agreed to began to sink in. It was a collision course. Her ordered, hidden world was about to smash headlong into the blinding, chaotic glare of his.
She paused at the hallway entrance, looking back at him. He was already on his phone, probably texting his security or his manager, already seamlessly integrating her into the machinery of his life. He looked up, caught her watching, and winked.
Her stomach did a slow, thrilling somersault. Victory, she thought, did indeed taste sweet. And terrifying.