Chapter 2 2. JIBRIL (2)

JIBRIL

Most people think football stops being fun the second it becomes a job. They’re wrong.

The pressure, the cameras, the sponsorships, the endless travel—all of that shit disappears the second my boots hit grass. That’s the only reason I agreed to this ridiculous parents-versus-parents charity match at St. Albion Academy.

My manager has two kids here. Saying no would’ve turned into another week of headlines about how football’s golden boy doesn’t care about the community.

So here I was.

Standing outside the changing room, wrapping tape around my wrist, listening to kids laughing in the distance. The rest of the “team” were already joking around of being former academy guys, businessmen, a retired defender, and one TV presenter who still claimed he almost went pro twenty years ago.

Dennison, my manager, clapped me on the shoulder. “Ready?”

“As ready as anyone can be for a bunch of overcompetitive dads.”

He laughed. “Don’t embarrass them too much.”

“No promises.”

I stepped out onto the pitch and the phones came out immediately. Kids pointed at me, parents stared. Same old shit. I gave a small nod and jogged toward the centre circle.

My eyes moved on habit. Families. Teachers. A few good-looking mothers. A couple of decent-looking fathers. I noticed both. I always have.

The world thinks Jibril Reynolds is football’s perfect straight prince—disciplined, professional, never looks twice at anything that isn’t a woman. That’s the image the agents built and the one my family needs to stay intact.

Having a muslim grandfather and pagan parents who still kept his traditions, being bi was never an option on the table. So I kept it quiet. Always.

Then I saw the referee. He was the only person on the entire pitch not looking at me.

Crouched over, checking his whistle, sliding a yellow card into one pocket and a red into the other, he was completely focused on something that wasn't me. Interesting.

Some dad next to me who must have noticed me staring at the young referee muttered, “He looks nervous.”

I bet he was. Most people were when I was nearby.

“He’ll survive,” I said.

The referee finally looked up. Green eyes. They are so bright even from this distance. He looked my way.

Most people looked away after a second, but he didn’t. He just stared, raised one eyebrow like he was asking what the fuck I was looking at, then went back to the ball like I didn’t exist.

I actually laughed.

When he bent down I clocked the tight ass in those black shorts, then the legs, then the feet. Big feet. Fuck. That was a problem. I liked big feet. Liked them a lot more than I should.

The whistle went and we had to do the coin toss.

He didn’t smile at me or ask for a photo or say he was my biggest fan. Dude just held out the coin.

“Heads or tails?”

I acted like it didn't bother me. “Heads.”

It landed heads. “Your team has the first ball, Mr. Reynolds.”

Mr. Reynolds. Not Jibril. Not JR. That was new.

He backed up and blew the whistle to start.

I didn’t chase the ball like the amateurs, I chased space. The first goal came easy, second one came easier, and by the time the fourth goal came the referee already had the yellow card in his hand.

He held it up like it was nothing, didn't even state the reason why. Just a calm little warning like I was any other dad who needed telling off.

That pissed me off more than it should have, and it turned me on more than it should have.

After the match I signed a few shirts, took a few photos, then headed for the changing room. Dennison was still dealing with parents. Perfect.

The referee was already inside, staring at his hands like they had dirt on them. He didn’t even move when I walked in.

"We need to talk."

He raised a brow, asking, "Talk about what?" Then he turned away like he didn't give a damn about what I was about to say.

I was going to say, hey, I noticed what you did there in the field and I just wanted to ask if it's because you want me to sign on something of yours. But this fan was putting on airs.

I walked straight to him and shoulder-checked him.

“Bloody riffraff,” he spat.

British. Sharp. That accent did something to me.

I kept walking toward my bag, smiling. Fans like him were predictable. Act like they don’t want you so you’ll come after them. Good thing we were alone.

He’d warned me three times and yellow-carded me after the fourth goal. Such an attention-seeking little shit.

“Did you fucking hear me?” he said.

I turned, still smiling. “Enough already. I’m giving you what you want.” Attention.

His chin went up. There was a small mole right under it. “You think I’m one of your fans? Call me a faggot if I ever give a shit about you or whatever you do, sir.”

“You’re brave.”

“And you’re a cockblock.”

I stepped closer. “I like the sound of cock coming out of your mouth. Is that why you’re here, little fag? You want it? Too bad we’re at a school. I can’t fill that brave mouth of yours right now.”

He stepped in front of me again. “You just called me gay?”

“You called yourself that first. 'Call me a faggot...'”

I put my hands on his shoulders and moved him aside. He didn’t like that.

“Clearly you’re the one who’s gay,” he muttered, “offering your dick to a random man. Keep that up and your career’s finished.”

That did it.

Football is my life and nobody gets to threaten that.

I closed the space in one step, nose to nose. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

He smiled wickedly with no fear. “You heard me. Real football fans know that FIFA don’t need a player like you.”

The switch flipped fast. I went from anger to pure want in under a second. Everything about him matched what I liked—the attitude, the refusal to back down, the green eyes, the big feet, the way he looked at my mouth like he was thinking about it.

I didn’t think, I just kissed him. Hard.

I crushed my mouth against his and shoved my tongue in before he could even decide whether to fight or freeze. He tasted like something sharp and British, and for half a second he went still. Then he fought back. Properly, with ands in my hair, yanking, trying to take control of the kiss like he actually thought he could win.

I let him think it for a second. Then I spun us.

My back hit the wall first, his body pressed flush against mine, and I felt the hard line of his cock against my thigh. The little referee who had spent the whole match treating me like shit was rock hard from one kiss.

That made me smile against his mouth.

I grabbed his hips, lifted him, and slammed him into the brick wall.

His legs locked around my waist on instinct. I pinned both his wrists above his head with one hand and kept kissing him like I was trying to shut him up permanently. He made a low sound in his throat—half anger, half something else—and rolled his hips against me, like he couldn’t help it.

I got my free hand under his shirt, found a nipple, and pinched hard.

He moaned into my mouth. A very hot moan sent heat straight to my cock.

I pinched his nipple again, slower this time, and felt him throb against me. He was fully hard now, no question, and the knowledge that I’d done that to him in under a minute made my own dick ache.

I broke the kiss just long enough to speak against his lips, “Still think I’m the only one who’s gay?”

He opened his mouth to answer and I kissed him again before the words could come out. Messy. Wet. Teeth and tongue and the sound of both of us breathing hard.

I kept him pinned, grinding against the hard outline of his cock, and every time he tried to take control I just tightened my grip on his wrists and reminded him who was in charge.

I didn’t even know his name but I still wanted to fuck him through the wall.

The door opened.

Dennison’s voice cut through everything. “Owh… did I kill the moment?”

The British referee shoved me off so hard I almost stumbled.

His feet hit the floor as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, chest heaving, face flushed, the clear outline of his hard cock still visible in those black shorts.

He didn’t look at me. He just slid past Dennison and was gone before either of us could say another word.

I stood there breathing hard, cock straining against my kit, staring at the empty doorway.

Well, there went my chance to get laid today.