Offside love

~ CHAPTER THREE ~

The flashbulbs never stopped.

They popped, one after another, bright enough to make his pupils shrink, making his skin glisten under the harsh glare. Cameras clicked in rapid succession. Zayne Navarro smiled, tilted his head, lifted his chin. Hands on hips, ball under one arm, jersey damp with sweat, his hair tousled just so. Everyone loved him media, fans, sponsors. They adored the cocky, untouchable striker who scored goals like he was playing god.

And yet, every pose, every grin, every calculated smirk felt hollow.

Because Zayne knew how to perform. The mask, the charm, the swagger it was all for them. For the world. But under the lights, under the noise, there was always that gnawing emptiness, that itch he couldn’t scratch. He could f**k anyone, any girl willing, and feel nothing. Except…

It had started a few weeks ago.

He could still remember the first time it happened. A girl in a club, loud steps digging into the floor, lips wet, eager. She’d gone down on him in a back corner of a VIP lounge. And he’d stiffened, almost unconsciously, but then… nothing.

His body betrayed him later, yes. He got hard, eventually. But only when he thought of her.

Avery.

The physio girl. The one with sharp eyes, calm hands, and a composure that made him grind his teeth in frustration. She was professional. She was untouchable. She didn’t flirt. She didn’t giggle. And she made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Something more intense.

And he hated it, he hated not having the upper hand.

He hated that he imagined her kneeling in front of him in the locker room, that he could feel her precision in every touch he’d given another girl. Hated that he craved it. Hated that he couldn’t erase her from his mind.

And it was making him reckless.

The media shoot continued. A stylist fussed with his jersey, a photographer barked directions. “Turn more, shoulders forward, smolder.”

Zayne obeyed automatically, masking his frustration with the practiced ease of someone who had done this a thousand times. He flexed his biceps for the camera, shifted his hips. Every movement was calculated for the crowd. But inside, his mind kept drifting Avery’s hands, her voice when she barked instructions, the way she’d ignore him yet dominate everything in her space.

“Are you okay?” a young stylist asked. She noticed his momentary distraction.

Zayne smirked, casual. “Never better.”

But he was not better. He was restless, tense, hungry for something he shouldn’t want. And that made him restless.

Flashback

He was twelve when it happened.

The living room smelled of leather polish and tension. His father sat stiffly in an armchair, the glow of the muted television throwing jagged shadows across the walls. Zayne had just come back from practice, mud still streaked across his knees, but no one asked about his game. No one ever did.

His mother’s voice carried from the kitchen—sharp, precise, not cruel, but cold. She was there, but never with him. Always dressed, always perfect, always distracted. She kissed his cheek like she was ticking off a box, like affection was another chore.

That night, Zayne heard his father say, almost carelessly, “If he doesn’t make it, he’s nothing. Football is all he has.”

The words hit harder than any tackle. Standing in the hallway, Zayne had understood something no twelve-year-old should have to: love came with conditions, and approval had to be earned.

So he performed. He learned to win. To smile for cameras. To let women cling to him without ever letting them close. He gave them nights, pleasure, perfection—but nothing deeper.

Because deep down, he knew the truth: affection could vanish, trust could rot, and love… love was just another performance waiting to collapse.

That was the lesson he carried into adulthood—commitment was a trap, and love was a currency he refused to trade in.

It explained his cold detachment with the girls he slept with now. He f****d, yes. He pleased, yes. But emotional investment? Not possible. Not safe. Not wanted.

He took a swig of water between shots, eyes scanning the room. A model with legs up to her ribs approached, hips swaying, lips parted like she already knew what he wanted. She pressed close, whispered something about “taking a break from all this fake shit.”

Zayne should have responded. Should have reacted. Should have let it happen.

He didn’t.

Not fully.

Because her face kept popping in his mind. That sharp, unreadable expression. The calm command of her hands when she worked on players. The precision she carried into everything she did.

She was like ice that burned.

And now, here he was, staring at a girl pressed against him in a VIP shoot, and he couldn’t even feel her. His c**k betrayed him. His mind betrayed him. He hated it. Hated himself. Hated that only Avery had this effect.

By the time the shoot ended, Zayne was buzzing with agitation. He hated girls who tried to replace her in his mind. He hated the hunger that didn’t satisfy. He hated that he couldn’t control this.

He pulled his hoodie over his oily skin orange from the products , grabbed his bag, and left the studio. The city was buzzing. Cars honked, fans shouted, flashes from cameras followed him outside. He moved through it all like a predator. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.

But inside, his body was taut, every nerve ending screaming for Avery.

Back to Reality

Later that night, he sat in his penthouse, overlooking the city. The skyline glittered like a thousand tiny stars. Expensive furniture, expensive taste, a life built to impress. And yet, he couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t enjoy it. Couldn’t f**k anyone else without thinking of her.

He had tried before girls he’d brought home, eager, wet, perfect technique but nothing worked. His mind drifted back to Avery. The way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she had looked at him the first day. Calm. Unbothered. Untouchable.

He hated that she had that power over him.

And he wanted more.