Dating The Bad Boy Striker

TESSA

“Tessa, you’re needed right now. Leo Santiago is doing a live Q&A with fans and you’re covering it,” Katerina said, thrusting a thick folder into my chest.

I blinked. “Wait—what? Nobody told me I’d be—”

“The reporter scheduled for it is stuck in traffic, and you’re the only one available. Please, just go. They’re waiting for you.” She didn’t wait for me to object. She was already halfway down the corridor, heels clicking like gunshots.

“I’m not even dressed for this,” I muttered, glancing down at my oversized button-up, coffee stain just below my waistline like a sad trophy. I looked like I’d fallen out of a laundry basket. Because I had. Twice. This morning.

No time to change.

Before I could turn and run, a studio assistant appeared and all but herded me like cattle toward the main media room. Giant screens lit up the dark corners of the hall. Cameras everywhere. A large crowd of reporters already seated, scribbling notes and whispering like vultures in heels.

I stepped in, awkwardly gripping the mic.

My heels clicked too loudly against the floor. I wasn’t supposed to be here. 

And then—

“There you are, Miss Tessa,” came the smooth, low voice of Sloane Mitchell. Tall, terrifying in an all-black pantsuit. Her eyes sharper than glass.

She didn’t smile. “Shall we?”

I nodded slowly, heartbeat thudding in my ears. The cameraman gave me a thumbs-up. The room fell silent. All eyes on me.

I cleared my throat and forced a breath. “Mr. Leo Santiago… we’ll begin now.”

And then he looked up.

Leo Santiago.

Every breath in the room seemed to vanish.

He sat casually in the leather chair at the center of the stage, long legs crossed, a designer watch peeking from beneath his rolled-up sleeve. One brow raised. His eyes met mine—dark, sharp, and too damn focused. His jaw tightened slightly, then relaxed.

And he looked really handsome.

Like, dangerously handsome. The kind of handsome that knock years off your memory. 

Holy crap.

“Right,” I muttered, adjusting the mic like an amateur. My fingers trembled. The room felt hotter than a sauna.

Leo tilted his head. “You good, Miss Tessa?”

Miss?

A few chuckles rippled through the press line.

I swallowed hard. “Yes. I just… dropped my confidence somewhere back there.”

More laughter. Leo’s lips curved.

Katerina’s voice buzzed in my earpiece. “Stick to the questions. Don’t faint.”

I cleared my throat again, flipped the folder open with sweaty palms. “Alright. First question from a fan. ‘Leo, is it true you’re transferring to Madrid next season?’”

Leo smirked, leaned into the mic. “Depends. Do they serve better espresso than London?”

The crowd chuckled again. The man had charm. Stupid, unfair levels of it.

I tried to laugh too, but all I could think about was the fact that my bra strap was twisted, my eyeliner was uneven, and I’d accidentally called my boss “dad” on the phone this morning.

God, this day was cursed.

We moved on to more questions. Leo answered each one with effortless cool, the crowd hanging onto every word. He teased, winked, leaned back like he owned gravity.

And me?

I stumbled through my lines, flipped two pages ahead by mistake, and nearly called him Mr. Santi-noodle out loud because my brain short-circuited mid-word.

He looked amused. Like he was watching a toddler try to drive a tank.

Then came the last question.

“Mr Leo Santiago,” I read, voice a little steadier now. “Are you… a gay?”

I paused.

Stared at the paper.

“…Oh shit.”

A few heads turned. Cameras zoomed in. I waved my hand fast.

“That wasn’t me—I didn’t write that question.” 

Leo looked up, one brow raised. “You sure you read that right?”

“I swear. Someone snuck it in. I’m just reading what’s on the sheet.”

He leaned forward slightly. “Relax.”

Then he smirked.

“I’m not gay.”

Silence cracked into laughter. A few people clapped.

I glanced down again. “Who even writes these questions?”

Leo grinned. “Apparently someone very curious.”

I muttered under my breath, “I’m getting fired for this.”

He heard it. “Not on my watch.”

I looked at him.

He didn’t look away.

“Next question?” he said.

I flipped the page, still recovering. “Right. Yeah. Next…”

I stood up too fast.

“The next question is—” I glanced at the paper, heart pounding louder than the mic in my hand. “—‘Do you have a girlfriend at the moment?’”

That was it. The cursed question.

Leo raised a brow, but before he could say a word, I stepped back—foot snagged on a wire I hadn’t seen, heel twisted, and—

BAM.

I didn’t just fall.

I launched.

Straight into Leo Santiago’s lap.

Like a guided missile of shame.

A collective gasp echoed around the room. Phones flew up. Flashes exploded like fireworks. My body went rigid. His body—warm, muscular, expensive-smelling—stayed completely still under mine.

My face was in his chest.

His hand was on my back.

We were a scandal waiting to happen.

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

Leo looked down at me, one hand still hovering behind my waist like he wasn’t sure if he should push me off or hold me closer. “You alright there, Miss Tessa?” he asked, voice dangerously low and amused.

I scrambled to sit up, but my knee knocked into his, my hair got stuck in his watch, and for one horrifying second, it looked like we were snuggling.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Cameras loved it.

The audience? Dead silent.

Then—

“SANTIAGO’S NEW GIRL?” someone yelled from the crowd.

That did it.

Sloane Mitchell, with the fury of ten hurricanes and the grace of a terminator, stormed over and yanked me to my feet with a grip that could dent steel.

“Sorry everyone,” she said, jaw tight, eyes scanning every camera like she might sue them all one by one. “We apologize for the interruption.”

Leo stayed in his chair, fingers drumming against his knee, one brow lifted, a slow smirk creeping in like the devil himself just got entertained.