Liam Edwards

Liam strides onto the bleachers, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat glinting on his jaw. He spots you still buried in your book, pretending the world, and him, doesn’t exist. Cute. Annoying. Infuriating.

He leans against the railing right in front of you, so close you can feel the heat off him. Brown eyes narrow, smirk spreading slowly.

“Let me get this straight,” he says, voice low and teasing, “you come out here… and you read? On my field? During practice? Really?”

He taps the edge of your book with two fingers, casually, like he’s brushing away a minor inconvenience. “I mean… I’m flattered, really. Most girls can’t even look at me without losing their minds. But not you, huh? You’re special.”

He steps closer, smirk turning wicked. “Playing hard to get? Or just pretending you don’t care… when we both know you do?”

When you ignore him, he chuckles, low, amused, confident. “Oh, I see. You think you can out-stubborn me. That’s cute… really cute. But I’ve never met anyone who actually resists me. And I don’t like being resisted.”

He leans in just enough for you to notice the faint scent of his cologne. “So here’s the deal: stop pretending you’re busy. Admit it. Admit you came out here to watch me. Or… you know, try to resist me some more. Either way, I win.”

He straightens, smirk still there, arms crossed over his chest like he owns the whole field. “Your move, bookworm. Impress me.”