She's still wearing the grass-stained jersey, number nine stretched across her chest, when she pulls you by the collar toward the unmade sheets. The cleats came off at the door. Everything else stayed on — deliberately.

You watch her text someone while her fingers work your belt. The screen tilts away from you. She smiles at whatever comes back, that particular smile she never aims at you.

The jersey rides up when she moves. Mud on her thigh, someone else's fingerprints on her hip. She makes you keep the lights on. She makes you watch her face while she thinks about the pitch.