There was the black beanie I’d lost two weeks ago. The silver chain I’d sworn was in my gym bag. A hoodie I hadn’t seen in weeks, sleeves folded like it was waiting for me. And there, tucked in the corner, pinned with a single red pushpin, was the orange hat I’d worn after that press conference at the beginning of the season.
She’dtakenthem.
My pulse kicked—hard.
She’s been watching me. Collecting me. Stalking me.
Every photo, every stub, every stolen piece…it wasn’t just fandom.
It wasdevotion.
A secret altar tome.
And the longer I stared, the more the realization sank in:
Ophelia was my stalker.
Ishouldhave been disgusted. Should’ve felt my skin crawl, my gut twist with fear. Any sane guy would’ve backed out, called the cops, burned the keycard on the way down the hall.
But I didn’t.
I stepped closer.
My cock stirred, thickening against my thigh.
Fuck.
I yanked open the top drawer of her desk. There was more of me.
A stack of my practice jerseys—folded small, hidden under textbooks. A half-empty bottle of my cologne, the one I wore every game day. A single sock I’d lost after a practice.
My breath came faster, and I opened the next drawer. There were ten spiral notebooks, all labeled in her neat, looping handwriting.
Matty – Vol. 1
Matty – Vol. 2
Up toVol. 10.
I flipped openVol. 1first. The early pages were sweet, her handwriting smaller, careful, like she was whispering secrets to herself.
We’re married in the stadium at sunset. He kisses me in front of sixty thousand people while the band plays our song. I’m Mrs. Adler in white lace, and he lifts me off the turf, spins me once, then carries me down the tunnel like I’m the trophy.
Our first baby’s a boy, Matty Jr., born in the offseason, when the stadiums are quiet and he finally gets to stay home. The second’s a girl with his eyes, and we name her after his mom. He teaches them both to throw spirals in the backyard while I watch from the porch, his jersey stretched over my belly, already carrying number three.
I swallowed, throat tight, scanning every word in disbelief. She’s planned our whole damn life.
I turned the page. The fantasies shifted, becoming darker…hungrier.
He kisses me on the fifty-yard line after the championship. Not a peck. A full, filthy claim—tongue in my mouth, hands on my ass, crowd roaring. Then he drags me into the endzone, shoves me against the goalpost, and fucks me while the confetti’s still falling.
We renew vows in the locker room. I’m in his jersey and nothing else. He ties my wrists with his armband, spreads me on the bench, and makes me come so hard I squirt across the team logo.
I groaned, cock throbbing.
I flipped toVol. 3.
He pins me to the locker room wall after practice, rips my panties, and fucks me raw while the team waits outside, banging on the door, calling his name. He growls “mine” with every thrust, fills me up, then plugs me so I leak him all the way home.
