CHAPTER TWO: A Dark Consuming Feeling.

Christian

It's not someone I know.

No.

The man I bump into who has his arms wrapped around me is a complete and absolute stranger.

Messy blond hair, falling around his face flawlessly.

Dark chocolate eyes that stare so deeply at me, I fear they can see my soul.

And an impossibly ripped figure.

The latter, I'm conscious of because my arm is still holding those slightly bulging biceps, while he holds onto me.

It takes me more than a moment to regain myself, and pull away from the gaze of this stranger.

But thankfully, I'm back on my feet at some point.

The second thing I notice about him is that he's shorter than me.

A good five or so inches shorter than me if I do my calculations well, but that's not it.

I'm 6ft3, so a shorter soccer player won't be all that surprising.

What had me taking a breathe to actually pause and look at this guy is his face.

It's impossible.

That's the only one I can use for it at first, but I'm sure later in my room, when I stare at my bed more words will come.

Like, breathtaking.

Devastatingly gorgeous.

Impeccable.

Flawless.

I nearly have to slap myself to bring myself back to reality, because that's just how taken aback I am by him.

The man in front of me has a lean face, like God couldn't decide what to make of him.

His chocolate eyes are round, and fit perfectly in said face.

The straight line of his lips are so full and sensual, that I can tell they'll produce the most magnificent smile ever.

A single dimple is already popping at one side of his face, and he isn't even smiling yet.

And his nose is so perfectly straight, that it's hard to believe he's ever been punched in his life.

To sum it up—he is very handsome.

"I'm very sorry, are you alright?"

Damn, even his voice is perfect.

Not too soft while bothering on masculine, and not too firm it overrides it.

An unwanted image immediately feels my head of this young man, panting, while arching those—

"Ashford, OMG!!! Please marry me!"

Another fan lets out a deluded chant, and I force my eyes away from the man in front of me.

Light embarrassment burns my face when I realize I've been staring at him a lot.

But imagine my shock when he actually waves at the fan who just called.

"Thank you so much for the support, but the match will soon be starting. You should head up and get your seats now."

He speaks so clearly, and in control that I almost forget I'm not a fan, and start listening to him.

The fans still stare at him dreamily, as I manage to finally walk inside the stadium.

It's not until I step in that I realize one thing—not one of them even looked at me.

***

My eyes move quickly to the timer on the top side, and trepidation fills me.

The second half has just three minutes left, and it's been an absolute mess.

1:1.

Our score was even a miracle.

Frankly, everything is beyond a mess, but I don't have a better word for it.

Worst of all, I'm absolutely pissed.

The game started of all wrong to begin with—I'm normally the major striker, or at least the midfielder, but today I'm the defender.

I don't know why coach decided to set us up like this, but not only is it ruining the game, it's shitting on my mood.

As if trying to piss me off some more, I watch as he runs towards me.

The ball in tow, while he dribbles to avoid the players trying to take the ball.

If I wasn't so focused on making sure he didn't score that goal, I'd have been impressed by his dribbling skills.

One leg forward,

Another back,

A triple move they barely catch,

And just when they think they can snatch the ball, he shoots the ball with the heel of his left leg.

I'm almost too surprised to catch the ball headed at me, but I do.

Somehow, he's kicked the ball at the perfect trajectory where he can score.

Too bad, I won't let that happen.

Just as I see the ball flying, I jump as high as I can, kicking my leg out midair, and aiming for the ball.

But my plans crumble before my very eyes.

The leg I see in front of me, isn't just mine, but someone else's.

Him?

How did he get here so fast?

His legs shoot out before my eyes, and just grazes the ball barely, but that's all it takes.

One minute, I’m watching his movement, the next minute my ear drums feel like they're going to explode with the loud shouts that fill the stadium.

I barely catch the number 2:1 on the screen.

The guy I'd just been watching is lifted high into the air by his teammates, and I watch as sweat trickles down his face.

His hair is damp and sticks to his face, but his smile is brighter than ever.

Bastard.

That's the first thing I think.

It's shameful but I can't help it.

The adoring fans don't stop screaming his name, and his teammates look at him like he's the golden star.

The perfect striker.

I'm so absorbed in these thoughts that I don't see my teammates coming towards me.

Some of them pat my back in sympathy, while others just walk away, probably to get changed.

Yet, what I feel at the moment isn't disappointment that we lost the game but another feeling.

It's so dark and consuming, that I can't immediately tell what it is.

Ashford Ryder.

The name on everybody's lips.

The star player.

At that moment, I pick a side.

And as if he can read my thoughts, the young star's eyes surprisingly meet mine, and they widen by a fraction.

But I've already decided.

I hate him.