“Embarrass me?” he repeated, slower this time. The words sat heavy between us, sharp and disbelieving.
I tried to laugh it off, to wave it away like haha silly me, just joking, totally fine, but it came out wrong. Too brittle. Too transparent.
So instead, I sighed and let the truth tumble out like coins spilling from a broken vending machine.
“Mikel never brought me to anything team-related,” I admitted, picking at the hem of the hoodie I’d somehow decided was my security blanket now. “Said I wouldn’t fit in. That his friends… wouldn’t get me.”
Nikolai didn’t interrupt. Didn’t look away. Just watched me, his eyes unreadable and too intense for this early in the morning.
I stared at my knees, embarrassed by my own honesty but unable to stop.
“I mean, I guess I’m not really the ‘cool girlfriend’ type,” I muttered. “I’m loud. I talk too much. I name the dogs at the shelter after pastries. I cry at commercials. I bring glitter to things that really, really don’t need glitter.” I smiled awkwardly, trying to soften the words. “Apparently that’s hard to explain to guys who call each other ‘bro’ and measure their friendship by how hard they punch each other.”
Silence stretched out between us, and I almost regretted saying anything at all.
Almost.
Until Nikolai moved.
He leaned forward slightly, arms braced on his knees, gaze still locked on me with that intense, unreadable stare that made my lungs forget how to work properly.
“You think being yourself is a liability?” he asked quietly.
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t. Not with my throat closing up like that.
But I think he already knew.
Because something in his expression shifted—just slightly—but enough to tell me I wasn’t alone in that moment anymore.
Not even a little.
He didn’t explode.
He didn’t argue or tell me I was being ridiculous.
But something in Nikolai’s jaw locked tight, and I could practically feel the fury rolling off him in quiet, smoldering waves. Not aimed at me—never at me—but still sharp enough to cut glass. He was mad. For me.
It made my chest ache and flutter all at once.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at the floor for a beat like he was fighting the urge to punch something—maybe a wall, maybe Mikel, maybe the entire concept of locker room bro culture.
Then finally, he looked at me again.
And in a voice so calm, so low it almost sent shivers across my skin, he said, “You’re coming.”
Just that. Two words. Simple. Final.
And somehow, they hit harder than any love confession.
I blinked, startled. “Wait—really?”
He nodded once. “If I have to drag you onto the bench myself, yes.”
I felt my mouth open slightly, stunned into silence for a beat. And then—like a spark catching kindling—I lit up.
It wasn’t the offer that made my heart flutter. It was the certainty. The lack of hesitation. Like he didn’t care what his teammates thought. Like he wanted me there, glitter and pastry-dog names and all. Like he didn’t just tolerate the chaos that was me—he was inviting it.
