Levi
Seven
We’ve been texting for two weeks. Two weeks of messages that started innocent and now…
less innocent. Two weeks of falling asleep with my phone in my hand, waiting for Lina’s replies.
Two weeks of walking around with a permanent semi because the President of the United States told me what she’s wearing to bed.
Spoiler: it’s not much.
And now I’m standing on the sideline of a World Cup quarterfinal, surrounded by ninety thousand screaming fans, trying to focus on the biggest game of my career. And failing…
She’s here.
I can’t see her box from the field; too far, too many people, but I know she’s up there. Watching.
We haven’t seen each other since the state dinner. Two weeks of texts, a few late-night phone calls where her voice got soft and sleepy and I had to rub myself raw after…
But tonight, all that will change. If we win.
“Coach? You good?”
Danny’s looking at me with concern. Right. The game. The actual reason we’re here.
“Fine,” I say. “Let’s go.”
The whistle blows. The first half is brutal.
Our opponents are good, fast, technical, and pressing us hard.
We’re scrambling to defend, barely stringing two passes together.
By halftime, it’s 0-0 and I’m hoarse from yelling.
I give my halftime talk, make some tactical adjustments, formation tweaks, the usual, but my mind keeps drifting.
Is she watching? Is she nervous? Is she biting her fucking delicious lower lip when things get tense?
Focus, dumbass. You have a game to win!
The second half is better. We find our rhythm. And in the 67th minute, we score, a beautiful attack, three passes, and boom, ball in the net!
1-0.
The stadium explodes. I pump my fist, hug the first guy standing next to me, fucking finally!
Twenty-three minutes to go. Just hold on for twenty-three fucking minutes, boys.
But we don’t hold on. They equalize in the 88th minute. A defensive lapse, a cross we should’ve cleared, and suddenly it’s 1-1 and we’re heading to extra time.
Fuck!
I look up at the VIP boxes without thinking. I can’t see her, but I imagine she’s on her feet. Nervous. Rooting for us.
Rooting for me. Don’t let her down, boys.
Extra time is complete chaos. Both teams are exhausted, running on fumes and adrenaline. We hit the post in the 104th minute. They hit the crossbar in the 112th. And then it’s penalties.
Of fucking course.
I gather my team, give them the talk: stay calm, trust your preparation, pick your angle and commit.
My heart is about to explode out of my chest; my hands are shaking. The President of the United States is watching, and I desperately, pathetically want to impress her.
But the shootout is agony. We score. They score. We score. They miss. Their keeper guesses right on our fourth and saves.
Shit, shit shit.
They step up for their fourth. Our keeper dives left. The ball goes right. Tied again. It comes down to the fifth kick. Our shooter, Andy Yoon, a twenty—five-year-old midfielder who’s never taken a penalty this big in his life, walks to the spot.
I can’t watch this shitshow.
He runs up, strikes…
Please, please, please, God…
And fucking GOAL!
The stadium erupts. Our bench storms the field. I’m screaming, hugging everyone in reach, tears streaming down my face because holy shit, we just made the World Cup semifinals.
We won. And I get to see my girl.
The post-game chaos is insane. Interviews, celebrations, the team’s all over me. I do what I have to do: answer questions, praise my players, say all the right things, laugh and yell with them. But the whole time, I’m scanning the tunnel and waiting.
And then there she is. Lina walks toward the field with her Secret Service detail, and the world narrows to just her. She’s wearing white tonight. Some tailored pantsuit that hugs her curves and makes her look like a goddamn angel. Her hair is pulled back, showing off her gorgeous face.
Jesus, this woman!
Our eyes meet across the chaos. And she smiles. Not her public smile. Not the presidential one. The real one, soft, warm, intimate… the one that’s just for me.
Yeah. I’m fucking done for.
She works her way through the crowd, shaking hands, congratulating our boys. The picture of grace. But she keeps glancing at me. And I keep staring at her.
Then, finally, fucking finally, she reaches me.
“Coach Hendricks.” Her voice is formal, but her eyes are dancing. “Congratulations. That was quite a game.”
“Thank you, Madam President.” I match her tone, keeping it professional. “I’m glad you could be here.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it.” She tilts her head, and there’s mischief in her expression. “I was hoping we could speak privately. To discuss… the team’s needs going into the semis.”
“Of course,” I say, and it takes everything in me to keep my face from breaking into a huge grin. “I’m happy to brief you.”
Lina’s Secret Service guy appears at her elbow. And if he thinks anything is weird about this, his face does not show it.
“There’s a room down the hall, ma’am. It’s secure.”
She nods, smiling at him. “Perfect.”
Then she turns and walks toward the tunnel. And I follow, with my heart pounding so loud I’m sure everyone around us can hear it.
The room is some kind of office,with a desk and chairs. The door clicks shut behind us, and then we’re alone.
Fucking alone.
We stare at each other, smiling.
“Hi,” she says softly.
“Hi,” I reply.
And then we both move at once. I don’t know who reaches who first. All I know is that her mouth is on mine, my hands are on her, and two weeks of texting and wanting and waiting fucking combust all at once.
Finally. Fucking FINALLY.
This isn’t like our first kiss. That was slow tasting, discovery.
This is feral, desperate; we’re fucking each other.
Lina grabs my shirt, yanking me closer. I grip her full, round hips, pulling her body flush against mine.
She gasps against my mouth and I swallow the sound, fucking loving it, my tongue stroking hers, drinking her in, fucking drowning in her.
“Levi…” she breathes.
“I know.” I walk her backward until her back hits the wall. “I know, baby, I know.”
My mouth drops to her neck. I drag my lips along her throat, feeling her pulse race under my tongue. She tips her head back, giving me access, and the little moan she makes goes straight to my cock.
Mine.
“Two weeks,” I growl against her skin. “Two fucking weeks of just words and I couldn’t touch you…”
“Fuck…”
“Do you have any idea what you fucking do to me?” My hands slide down her sides, gripping her thick, round ass. “Every night, lying in bed, thinking about you, fucking my fucking hand…”
“Yes,” she gasps. “God, yes, I know, I was doing the same…”
Fuck.
I take her mouth again, kissing her deep and dirty. All tongue and teeth. She moans into my mouth, her fingers clawing at my shoulders, my back, sliding down to grab my ass. I press my hips into hers, and she whimpers when she feels how hard I am.
“This what you do to me, sweetheart,” I rasp against her lips. “Feel that? That’s all you.”
“Fuck, baby…”
“Every fucking time I think about you.” I roll my hips, grinding against her, and we both groan. “In meetings. On the sideline. In the middle of the goddamn night…”
Her hand slides down my chest, my stomach. Lower.
Holy shit.
Her palm presses against the bulge in my pants, and I see fucking stars.
“Lina…”
“I want to touch you, Levi,” she whispers. “I’ve been thinking about touching you for years,” she breathes close to my ear.
“Here?” My voice cracks. “We can’t, sweetheart… someone could…”
“I don’t care.” Her fingers trace the outline of my rock-hard cock through the fabric, and I think I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die. “I need…”
Then, of fucking course, because we’re us, a knock comes on the door.
NO!!!
We freeze.
“Madam President?” The Secret Service agent’s voice is muffled through the wood. “The car is ready, ma’am.”
Fuck. Me.
Lina drops her forehead to my chest, breathing hard.
“One minute,” she calls out, and her voice is almost steady. Almost.
I’m still pressed against her, still hard as fuck, still trying to remember how to breathe.
“This is fucking torture,” I mutter into her hair.
Her laugh is shaky and breathless. “Tell me about it.”
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen, her hair is a mess, and she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my whole fucking life.
“After the semis,” I say. “Win or lose. I’m coming for you.”
She smiles, eyes shining with mischief. “Promise?”
“Promise.” I press my forehead to hers. “We can’t keep doing this, Lina. These… stolen moments. We need more.”
She nods, her soft hand coming up to cup my jaw. “We do.”
“We’ll figure it out.” I turn my head, pressing a kiss to her palm. “I don’t care how complicated this is. I know you can feel it, too. How special we are…”
“I do,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” She smiles her real smile, the one that fucking wrecks me. “Good luck with the game, Coach.”
I chuckle, then kiss her one more time.
“We will.”
Lina slips out of my arms and smoothes her hair, composing herself. By the time she opens the door, she’s the President again, calm, together, and fucking leagues away from me. But when she looks back at me before leaving, her eyes say soon.