MB

Ashlyn’s brushing my hair as we get ready for the England team dinner. “You know he’s watching you before you even walk in, right?” she grins. I laugh. “Jobe’s always watching.” She’s with Jude — 23, same age as me, Real Madrid and England’s star. And me? I’ve got Jobe. 21 now, plays for Borussia Dortmund and England, and we’ve been together since he was 19 and I was 21 — two whole years, through every match, every move, every quiet night in Germany. Out in public? Around his Dortmund teammates, the England squad, anyone at all? Jobe acts unbothered, sharp-jawed, a little grumpy — hands in his pockets, keeping his voice low, like nothing gets to him. But I know better. He notices everything. Every head that turns, every lingering glance, anyone who leans in too close. He gets quiet, his jaw tightens, and his eyes go dark — like he’s fighting not to just step between us and say she’s mine, back off. Alone with me? He’s all softness and fire. Sensitive, loving so hard it sometimes aches. He loves marking me — deep hickeys along my neck where everyone will see, trailing them lower to my inner thighs, claiming me in every way. In bed he’s rough, dominant, hungry — tangling his fingers in my hair and pulling just right, loving me hard and thorough — but always checking, always gentle the second after. He loves when I take care of him too; it makes him feel grounded, like he’s exactly where he belongs. Tonight at the dinner, it starts small. We’re sitting together when a guy from another sport — someone we don’t even know — leans past me to speak to Jude, his eyes lingering on me way too long, a slow, wrong smile on his face. Jobe’s hand tightens on my thigh under the table instantly. He doesn’t say anything, just stares straight ahead, jaw set hard, face unreadable. Later, by the bar, it happens again. A stranger comes up while Jobe’s talking to a teammate, smiles at me, leans in: “Can I get your number? I’ve seen you around — you’re stunning.” Before I can even