Jules Baptiste

The sun baked the turf, transforming it into a rubbery expanse that radiated heat. The air was thick with the pungent smells of sweat, blood, and unyielding ego. Roars erupted from the crowd, their teal and black flags waving like storm clouds poised to unleash a deluge. On the pitch, Jules Baptiste stood tall, rolling his shoulders and clenching his jaw. His jersey was already grass-stained—a testament to the battle ahead, and he hadn’t even tackled anyone yet.

Across the field, the New York Gridlocks broke their huddle. There he was: Conner Vance. #5. Captain. Lock. The man was the human equivalent of a locked file cabinet—sleek, solid, and utterly unreadable. Tape wrapped around his wrists, his hair barely mussed, his eyes scanned the field with the precision of a chess master surveying a board.

Jules inhaled sharply, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Course he doesn’t even sweat,” he muttered to nobody in particular. “Must be nice, bein’ carved from cold fuckin’ marble.”

With a shrill whistle, the match began. The ball soared through the air, and everything snapped into motion. Jules became a blur—cleats tearing into the turf as he charged forward, shoulder dropping to barrel into a Gridlocks player mid-pass. The impact was thunderous; the guy hit the ground like a sack of bricks, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Legal hit. Barely.

But Jules wasn’t finished.

In the next scrum, he locked eyes with Conner across the bind. Their forearms intertwined, the tension palpable.

“Still playing like you’ve got something to prove, Baptiste?” Conner’s voice was calm, deadpan, cutting through the chaos around them.

Jules grinned, a flash of teeth brimming with animosity. “Oh, cher... I ain’t playin’.”

He shoved Conner harder than necessary, igniting an explosion of bodies—a chaotic symphony of crashing players, boiling tempers, and the referee’s whistle shrieking like it feared for its life. Jules surged forward, invading Conner’s personal space as the dust settled around them.

“You gonna look me in the eye this time, or are you still too scared I’ll outshine you?” Jules growled, his chest heaving, his forehead nearly brushing against Conner’s.

Unfazed, Conner replied, “You’re not here to outshine me. You’re here to remind everyone why you left.”

Ouch.

Jules lunged, adrenaline surging as he threw off restraint. It took three Bobcats to hold him back, one of them shouting about “disciplinary warnings” and “not again, Jules, PLEASE.” The referee brandished a card, the crowd rose to its feet, and somewhere in the stands, a little old lady dropped her churro, yelling, “BREAK HIS NOSE!”

And this? This was only the first half.

The tunnel still reeked of turf, sweat, and fresh blood—some of it Jules’s, but not nearly enough to quell the fury simmering in his gut. His jaw throbbed from the hit he couldn’t dodge, while his knuckles were split from the blows he had delivered. A staffer thrust a water bottle into his hand as he limped past the Bobcats’ locker room, but he barely registered it. The cacophony of the crowd still echoed in his ears—cheers, gasps, that gut-wrenching OHHHHHHHH when he and Conner Vance collided like wild dogs.

He hadn’t won the fight—not really. But he had certainly made a statement.

As Jules turned the corner toward the restricted exit, dragging a towel across the back of his neck, the humid air clung to him, thick with the post-match adrenaline. That’s when he spotted them.

Leaning against the concrete wall just past security. Cool as hell. Cute as hell. Their eyes sparkled with the knowledge that they were being watched—and they liked it.

But it wasn’t the allure that held Jules in place; it was the damn jersey. Gridlocks #5. Vance stamped across the back in bold black letters. It hung a little oversized, as if it was meant to drape, as if it had once been worn by Conner himself—like it had been taken off him, too.

A grin twisted across Jules’s mouth, and it was anything but friendly. “Oh, that’s dirty,” he muttered to himself. Then, louder, loud enough for them to hear as he stalked closer, blood still drying on his temple and something wicked rising in his chest, “You showin’ up in his colors right after I almost rearranged his jaw? You tryin’ to send a message, chéri? Or just like watchin’ me get mad?”

Jules closed the distance like he owned the hallway, the remnants of the fight still crackling in the air. His bruised knuckles flexed around the edge of his towel, and a single bead of sweat traced the line of his jaw—sharp, furious, beautiful in the worst way.

And they remained there, still wearing his number. That smug little Gridlocks jersey draped over their frame like a challenge—or maybe merely bait.

As he stopped in front of them, close enough for them to catch a whiff of the aftermath of the match—grass, blood, and the high burn of adrenaline racing through his veins—Jules smirked. “You’re bold, huh?” he said, his voice smooth with that slow, teasing drawl—infused with Louisiana charm. His Creole lilt curled around each vowel like heat rising off pavement. “You came all the way to my turf, stood outside the locker room wearin’ that, and you want me to believe it’s coincidence?”

His eyes flicked from their face to the name on their back. VANCE.

Something twisted behind Jules’s eyes. It wasn’t pain—no, it was something worse. Recognition. Memory. Regret. Lust. Definitely rage, dressed up as flirtation.

“That boy ever fight for you the way I fought him tonight?” he asked, tilting his head. “’Cause I promise you, cher—he don’t bleed like I do. And he sure as hell don’t burn.”

A beat passed, tension strung tight between them like a high wire ready to snap.

Then, softer—too soft, too intimate for the chaos that had just erupted on the field—he asked, “You got a name, darlin’? Or you just want me to call you ‘Conner’s’ and see how far that gets us?”

He stepped back a half-inch, just enough to let them breathe again, that wicked grin never fading. “Or maybe you just like trouble,” Jules murmured, his voice low and inviting. “In that case—baby, you found the right Bobcat.”