Mine

The roar of the crowd was a dull hum compared to the intensity radiating from the man sitting in the VIP box. Michael Kaiser, the star of Bastard München and the self-proclaimed emperor of the pitch, wasn't on the grass today. A minor muscle strain had benched him for a single match—a precaution he loathed but one that allowed him a different kind of luxury.

He sat with his legs spread wide, his posture oozing a lethal mix of arrogance and relaxation. But he wasn't sitting alone.

Angel felt the heat of his body against her back as she sat firmly on his lap. Kaiser had insisted on it the moment they arrived. There were plenty of plush, expensive seats available in the private suite, but Kaiser didn’t care for them. He wanted her close—close enough to smell the floral scent of her hair, close enough to feel the rhythm of her breathing.

"Michael, people are staring," Angel whispered, though she made no move to get up. She was wearing a pair of incredibly short, tight denim shorts that hugged her curves and a cropped white top that teased a glimpse of her midriff.

Kaiser’s hand, large and calloused from years of training, rested firmly on her thigh. He squeezed slightly, his thumb tracing small circles over her skin. In his other hand, he held a cold can of beer, occasionally taking a sip while his gaze remained fixed on the field—or more accurately, on the way the light hit Angel’s profile.

"Let them look," Kaiser murmured, his voice a low vibration against her spine. "They’re used to seeing me dominate the field. Now they can see what I’ve conquered off of it."

"You're such a narcissist," she teased, leaning back against his chest.

Kaiser let out a short, sharp laugh, the sound muffled by her hair. "I’m a realist, liebling. And the reality is, you look far better on my lap than any trophy ever could."

Below them, the flashbulbs of the paparazzi were incessant. They weren't just focusing on the game; the "Emperor of Blue Lock" and his mysterious, stunning girlfriend were the headlines of tomorrow. Ever since Kaiser had gone public with Angel, his reputation had undergone a strange transformation. The public, who often viewed him as a cold, egoistic machine, found themselves captivated by the way he looked at her. He was still arrogant, yes, but there was a protective, almost feral devotion in his eyes whenever she was near.

Angel leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered a joke about one of his teammates' clumsy footwork on the pitch. Kaiser listened with rapt attention, his head tilted toward her, a genuine, private smirk playing on his lips.

A few minutes later, he pulled her into a full embrace from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder as he whispered something that made her throw her head back in a melodic laugh. The cameras caught it all: the raw, unfiltered chemistry that made the internet go into a frenzy.

"I need to use the restroom," Angel said after a while, patting his hand.

Kaiser groaned playfully, his grip tightening for a second before he let her go. "Don't be long. The view is significantly worse without you in the frame."

Angel giggled and slipped out of the suite. When she returned ten minutes later, however, the smile died on her lips.

Standing in front of Kaiser was a woman. She was tall—nearly as tall as Kaiser himself—with long, flowing hair and a figure that looked like it had been sculpted by a Renaissance master. She was leaning in close, her large chest nearly brushing against Kaiser’s arm as she gestured animatedly toward the field. She was beautiful, polished, and looked exactly like the kind of woman who belonged in a high-profile athlete's world.

Angel stopped in her tracks, a cold knot of insecurity tightening in her chest. She looked down at her own reflection in the glass of a nearby vending machine. She felt small. She felt ordinary.

By the time Angel reached the seat, the woman was walking away with a flirtatious wave. Kaiser didn't even look at the woman as she left; his eyes immediately locked onto Angel.

"You took too long," he said, reaching out to pull her back into his lap.

Angel sat down, but she felt stiff. She didn't lean back this time. Instead, she pulled out her phone, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened social media. The pictures from the game were already viral.

*“Kaiser and Angel are goals!”* one comment read.

But as she scrolled, she saw the new photos. The paparazzi had captured the tall woman talking to Kaiser. The captions were already changing.

*“Who is the mystery blonde talking to Kaiser? She looks much more his speed.”*

*“Honestly, they look better together. Angel is cute, but this girl is a goddess.”*

*“Ship! Kaiser needs a queen, not just a girl next door.”*

Angel felt a sting in her eyes. She tried to lock her phone, but Kaiser’s hand was already there, hovering over her wrist. He had been watching her face, his blue eyes darkening as he saw the light fade from her expression.

"Give me that," he commanded softly.

Angel shook her head, trying to hide the screen. "It’s nothing, Michael. Just people being internet trolls."

Kaiser didn't ask again. He gently but firmly took the phone from her hand and read the comments. His jaw tightened, a vein pulsing in his temple. He looked at the photo of the woman—a fan who had cornered him to talk about sponsorships—and then at the comments comparing her to Angel.

"You’re thinking about this?" Kaiser asked, his voice dangerously low.

"She’s very pretty, Michael," Angel whispered, looking at her knees. "She’s tall and... she looks like she belongs next to someone like you. I’m just... me."

Kaiser didn't say a word. He stood up abruptly, tucked her phone into his pocket, and gripped her hand. "We’re leaving."

"But the game isn't over—"

"I don't care about the game," he snapped, though his anger wasn't directed at her.

The ride back to his penthouse was silent, the tension in the car thick enough to cut with a knife. Angel felt like crying. She hated how easily she had let a few strangers' comments get under her skin, but the image of that woman standing over Kaiser haunted her.

The moment the door to the penthouse clicked shut, Kaiser didn't head for the kitchen or the living room. He spun Angel around, pinning her gently but firmly against the door.

"Look at me," he ordered.

Angel looked up, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I'm sorry, I'm being stupid."

"You are being stupid," Kaiser agreed, his voice softening as he leaned in, his nose brushing hers. "But not for the reasons you think. You think I care about height? Or the size of a woman’s chest? You think I’m that shallow?"

"Everyone was saying—"

"I am Michael Kaiser," he interrupted, his blue eyes burning into hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "I don't choose what 'everyone' wants. I choose what I want. And I want the woman who makes me forget there’s even a crowd watching. I want the woman who whispers jokes in my ear when I'm supposed to be focused on my career."

He leaned down, his lips ghosting over her forehead, then her eyelids, then the tip of her nose.

"You are my muse, Angel. Without you, I’m just a man with a ball. With you, I’m a King."

His mouth found hers in a kiss that was desperate and hungry, a silent vow to erase every doubt she had ever felt. He picked her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, as he carried her toward the bedroom.

He laid her down on the silk sheets, his hands roaming over her body with a reverence that felt like worship. He kissed the curve of her neck, the hollow of her throat, and the soft skin of her belly that had been exposed all day.

"Every inch of you is perfect," he murmured against her skin, his voice thick with desire. "I don't want a 'goddess' from a magazine. I want you. I want your laugh, I want your mind, and I want your body against mine until I can't breathe."

As he moved over her, his touch was both possessive and tender, shutting out the world outside. There were no cameras here, no fans, no tall women with perfect proportions. There was only Kaiser and the girl who held his heart in the palm of her hand.

He made love to her with a focused intensity, whispering her name like a prayer between kisses. He traced every curve of her body, his hands memorizing her shape as if he were trying to prove to her that she was the only one who mattered.

Much later, as Angel lay tangled in the sheets with Kaiser’s arm draped over her waist, the insecurity felt like a distant, fading dream. Kaiser reached for his phone on the nightstand, his fingers tapping rapidly.

"What are you doing?" she asked sleepily.

Kaiser turned the screen toward her. He had posted a picture from earlier in the day—the one where he was hugging her from behind and she was laughing.

The caption read: *Mine. The only one who matters. Keep your opinions to yourselves.*

"Michael!" she gasped, half-embarrassed but mostly glowing with a warmth she hadn't felt in hours.

Kaiser tossed the phone aside and pulled her closer, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "Now, shut up and sleep, liebling. You have to be well-rested. I’m taking you out tomorrow, and I want everyone to see exactly who the King chose."

Angel smiled, closing her eyes as she drifted off to sleep, finally believing that she was exactly where she belonged.