Chapter 1
Miranda
The World Cup was still a week away, but our house had already entered a state of fervent countdown.
Three days ago, Mom left for a business trip to New York. She wouldn’t be back until the final stages.
She had kissed us both at the airport, her designer suitcase rolling behind her like an afterthought. “You two enjoy the World Cup together,” she’d said with a bright, trusting smile. “Just don’t get too carried away and tear the house down.”
I just smiled at the time, but deep down, I felt a strange flutter in my heart — this summer, it would be just me and my stepfather Johan.
I was eighteen, freshly graduated, with nothing but a long, lazy summer stretching ahead before college. My mother had always been a workaholic, jetting off on business trips that left me alone for weeks at a time. But this time was different.
Johan Carter—my stepfather for the past two years. At forty-two, he was still every inch the former professional athlete. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and arms corded with lean muscle from years on the pitch and in the gym. His time as a starting midfielder for the U.S. national team had ended with a knee injury, but he’d reinvented himself as an ESPN commentator and assistant coach. His voice, deep and calm with that slight rasp when he got excited, could make even the most boring match sound thrilling. At home, he was gentle, attentive—the kind of father figure I’d never really had.
Yet lately, something had shifted. I’d catch myself staring when he stretched in the living room wearing nothing but athletic shorts, or when he walked through the kitchen shirtless after a run, sweat tracing the defined lines of his abs. My cheeks would flush, and I’d look away, scolding myself. He’s your stepfather, Miranda. Stop it.
That evening, Johan decided the living room needed a full makeover before the World Cup kicked off in earnest. “Miranda, come help me for a second,” he called, his voice carrying up the stairs.
I trotted down wearing a loose white camisole that clung lightly to my curves and soft gray home shorts. My hair was up in a casual ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame my face. Johan was already moving furniture, wearing a simple black tank top that stretched across his powerful chest and shoulders. The muscles in his arms flexed as he rolled up the rug, revealing the polished wooden floor beneath.
“Thought we’d turn this into a proper viewing room,” he explained with a boyish grin that made my stomach flutter. “Big projector, team flags, snacks—the works. You in?”
I smiled, caught up in his enthusiasm. “Yeah, sounds fun.”
We worked together for over an hour. I climbed the ladder to hang the U.S. national team jerseys on the wall hooks he’d installed. One of them was his old one—“CARTER 8” printed boldly on the back. As I reached up, the ladder wobbled slightly.
“Careful, sweetheart,” Johan said from below. His large hands settled on my waist to steady me. His palms were warm—almost hot—through the thin fabric of my camisole. I could feel the faint pressure of each finger, the broad span of his thumbs resting just above the curve of my hips. A strange warmth bloomed low in my belly.
My breath caught. “Thanks… I’ve got it.”
But he didn’t let go immediately. His grip remained firm and supportive as I stretched higher. His chest brushed lightly against my back when I shifted, and I caught the clean, masculine scent of his body wash mixed with the subtle musk of his skin. My nipples tightened against the soft cotton of my top. It’s just because I’m nervous on the ladder, I told myself. But my heart was racing faster than it should.
When I finally hooked the jersey and started climbing down, my foot missed the last rung. For a split second, I was falling—then Johan’s strong arms wrapped fully around my waist, pulling me back against his solid chest. He held me there, suspended for what felt like an eternity but was probably only two or three seconds. My back pressed flush against his firm torso. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the subtle flex of his muscles as he supported my weight effortlessly.
“You okay, baby?” His voice was low, gentle, with a hint of amusement. He looked down at me, those deep brown eyes catching the light. For a moment, his gaze seemed to linger on my flushed cheeks, then briefly on the slight dip of my collarbone where my camisole had shifted.
“I-I’m fine,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My skin tingled everywhere we touched. Reluctantly, I stepped out of his embrace, adjusting my clothes with trembling fingers. As I did, I noticed his eyes flick across my chest for a fraction of a second before he turned away, clearing his throat.
We finished setting up in comfortable silence—the projector, string lights, snack station, and team posters all in place. That night, we had our first official viewing session. The massive screen lit up the wall with the vibrant green pitch. Johan sat in the center of the sofa, shirtless in just a pair of black athletic shorts, his toned chest and abs glowing softly in the dim light.
“Come here, baby. Scoot a little closer,” he said casually, patting the spot right beside him. His arm rested along the back of the sofa.
I hesitated for only a heartbeat before sliding over. Our shoulders touched. Our bare thighs pressed together. As the match progressed, every exciting play made him lean in, his hand landing warmly on my thigh in celebration—innocent pats that sent tiny sparks racing across my skin. During halftime, he pulled me gently against his shoulder.
“Tired? Want to lean on Daddy and rest for a bit?”
I nodded, resting my head against him. His skin was hot and smooth, his scent enveloping me. When the U.S. team scored, he turned and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead.
“Our team’s looking strong, huh, baby?”
My face burned. My heart hammered against my ribs. This is Dad. My stepfather. The words repeated in my head like a mantra. But as I sat there, feeling the solid warmth of his body against mine, a quiet, terrifying thought slipped through:
Why does this feel so good?
We stayed like that for the rest of the evening—close, comfortable, electric. His hand occasionally stroked my thigh absentmindedly while he explained tactics. I barely followed the game. All I could focus on was the heat building between us and the confusing ache low in my core.
That night, lying in bed, I replayed every touch. The way his hands had felt on my waist. The press of his chest against my back. The gentle kiss on my forehead.
I knew it was wrong. I knew I should push these thoughts away.
But as I drifted off to sleep, I found myself wondering what tomorrow night’s match would bring… and whether I would sit even closer.
