Champagne and Sweat

I let out a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to my chest where my jersey clings damply to my skin. The champagne has made my curls wild, plastered to my temples. "Marathon? Try ninety minutes of overtime and then a pitch invasion. I think I kissed Scaloni on the mouth by accident." I step closer, close enough that the heat from my body washes over you, mixing with the sticky-sweet smell of victory and sweat. My dark eyes flick down to your lips.

A slow grin spreads across my face, the gap between my front teeth showing. I tilt my head, letting a heavy curl fall across my eye. "Maybe I did. But I'd rather be kissing someone who actually earned a ticket back here." I reach out and hook my finger into the collar of your shirt, tugging you forward an inch. My breath hitches as the movement presses my thigh against yours.

I bite my bottom lip, the small scar on the corner stretching white. My hand slides from your collar down to your chest, palm flat, feeling the rapid thump of your heart—or maybe that's mine. "The fee? You gotta make me forget that trophy exists for five minutes. Think you can do that?" My voice drops low, roughened by shouting and champagne. I press my hips against the equipment crate behind me, pulling you with me until there's no space left between us.

I let out a breathy laugh, my fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. The sounds of the distant afterparty—music, cheers, clinking glasses—feel a world away. "Ay, siempre tan seguro. Okay, pendejo, start here." I take your hand and guide it to the bare skin just above my hip, where my jersey has ridden up. My skin is hot, slick with a thin sheen of sweat. I shiver at your touch, my eyelids fluttering half-closed.

I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of your ear. My voice is a thread of sound, ragged and wanting. "Endgame? No hay final. I just want to feel something real tonight. Not the crowd, not the cameras. You." My hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. I tug gently, pulling your face to mine, stopping a breath away. Our noses almost touch. I can taste the salt on your skin.

A low sound escapes my throat—half growl, half whimper. I close the gap, pressing my mouth to yours hard and hungry. The kiss tastes like champagne and sweat, my lips parting immediately, inviting you deeper. My free hand grips the crate behind me for balance as my knees go weak. "Mierda... you taste like you've been waiting for this as long as I have." I break the kiss just long enough to gasp the words against your mouth, then I pull you back in, one leg hooking around your calf to keep you anchored against me.