ONE SHOTS - Football ✔️

(6) Marcus Rashford

Paris?

He looked over at her nervously, anxiously wringing his hands together. After talking it out with their group of friends, he had decided this was a great plan. It was just getting the words out of his mouth that was the difficult part. He tapped her on the shoulder.

"Yeah, Marcus?" she questioned, a light blush darkening her cheeks as she glanced down at his hand on her shoulder. Awkwardly, he rubbed the back of his neck, imagining all the ways that this could go wrong. What if she was busy? What if she didn't like him like that? She noted his nervousness. "You know you can tell me, right?"

"Oh, no, it's nothing serious," he blurted, causing her to raise both of her eyebrows and give him a pointed look. "I suppose it might be a little serious."

"How serious are we talking here, Rashford?" she joked, nudging him with her elbow. You would have thought that after ten years of friendship, he wouldn't feel himself blush at the suddenness of her touch. Looking down and then back up again, he shot her a nervous grin.

"Well, it's your birthday soon."

The statement made her chuckle slightly and she gave him a teasing smile, "I know that, dumbass."

"I was wondering if you wanted to go on a trip with me, to Paris?" he asked, his confidence disappearing with each moment of prolonged silence. "We could go somewhere else. Or, we don't have to go at all. I can cancel everything. It's fine. Don't worry. I'll call the hotel now and tell them we won't be coming."

His hand went for the phone in his pocket, inches away before he was paused by a hand enclosing around his wrist. Carefully, as if worried any sudden movement would scare him, she leaved her fingers with his. Marcus' eyes drifted down to their joined hands, a situation that was both unfamiliar and welcoming.

"Look at me, Marcus," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Both felt the charge in the air and the way it spiked when his beautiful brown eyes met her own. She pressed her free hand to his face, cupping it gently. "I would love to go with you."

The excitement that rushed through him was a feeling that he could not articulate with words, just actions. With a bashfulness that charmed the girl beside him, he clumsily placed his lips upon hers. She smiled at the pressure, placing both hands at the base of his neck and pulling him closer. In answer, his arms wrapped around her waist, the nervousness dissipating as they continued to kiss.

They drew away, foreheads resting against each other.

"That was a pretty good kiss, Rashford," she said with a wink. "I look forward to more like that in Paris."

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