Damien jogged back toward his side of the pitch, heart pumping, muscles lit with adrenaline—but it was a clean burn. The kind that didn't drain you, but sharpened you. He glanced to the side where the flashy striker—the one who'd tried to humiliate him earlier—was breathing hard, trying to act like the last exchange hadn't rattled him. But the clenched jaw and twitching eye told the truth.
"You like it?" Damien said as he passed him, his voice calm, almost casual. But the smirk playing on his lips was anything but innocent.
The striker didn't respond right away, but his glare spoke for him.
Damien tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. "Just saying… if you're playing like that to impress Celia or Victoria, you'll need to do better." He flicked his gaze toward the sideline—where the girls still stood like royalty surveying the scene. "Those whores have people like you circling them all day. You want to get noticed?" He shrugged. "You need to be special."
The guy stopped walking.
