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Lamar Jackson
I leaned back in my seat, fingers tapping against the cold leather of the bench in front of my bed in my hotel room. The noise outside was deafening, the streets of downtown Kansas City still buzzing, a sea of red riding high off their latest victory. The Chiefs had done it again, and the sting of defeat hit harder than ever, tightening in my chest with every thought of that final whistle. We had come close—so close—but, once again, it wasn't enough.
I fucking hated that feeling.
I always hated playing them. The very thought of facing Kansas City left a sour taste in my mouth. Five times I've lined up against them in the regular season, and I'd only beaten them once—three years ago. That's it. The rest of those games? They owned me. It was like no matter how hard I pushed, no matter how much I gave, they always had my number. And I hated that.
I fucking hated that.
Sitting there, still wearing the aftermath of the game on my skin, I couldn't shake the replay of every mistake, every missed opportunity. I was trapped in my head, locked in a mental loop of everything that had gone wrong. My hands clenched into fists, the frustration gnawing at me like a beast I couldn't control.
Then, a knock on the door.
Not just any knock. No, I knew that knock all too well, recognized it instantly. The kind of knock that wasn't just casual—there was a rhythm to it, a confidence that spoke of years of familiarity. I didn't even need to look through the peephole.
Javier.
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the handle longer than it should have. After a game like that, the last thing I needed was him. I didn't have the energy for whatever game he was about to play tonight, but even as I tried to convince myself to ignore it, I already knew I couldn't. Not with him. There was something about Javier that had always been impossible to turn away from.
Sighing, I muttered a low, "Fuck it," and pulled the door open.
And there he was. Javier Ramirez, standing there with that same cocky look he always had, like he owned the room before he even stepped inside. He was dressed sharp, as usual—designer boots, dark jeans, and a jacket that screamed money. He walked in like he belonged, his boots clicking against the floor as he strolled past me, his presence filling the space like it was his.
I shut the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell he wanted tonight of all nights.
"You don't waste any time, do you?" I muttered, more to myself than him. My voice was rough, tired.
Javier turned, his dark eyes flashing with something I couldn't quite read. "You expected me to wait? Not my style, Mar."
There it was. That nickname. The one that used to piss me off every time he said it, but now? Now, it just felt like another part of whatever the hell this was between us.
