Football Match Hookup

Saturday afternoon at the Emirates. Season ticket, north bank, watching Arsenal hopefully not disappoint for once.

She was in the seat next to me—apparently her mate had bailed and she'd come alone. Athletic, dark ponytail, wearing a retro shirt that looked vintage but probably cost more than my weekly shop.

"First time?" I asked.

"Nah. Been coming since I was twelve." She grinned. "You?"

"Ten years. Season ticket."

"Proper fan, then." She stuck out her hand. "I'm Freya."

"Marcus."

"Marcus. Good football name."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

The first half was decent—one-nil up, actual passing, the kind of performance that made you remember why you did this.

"Need a beer," Freya said at halftime. "Coming?"

The queue was mental, but we managed. Overpriced lager, but worth it.

"So," she said, sipping her pint. "You come here often?"

"That's definitely a chat-up line."

"It's definitely not. I'm asking literally." She paused. "Though I'm not opposed to chat-up lines. If you've got any good ones."

"I don't. I'm rubbish at this."

"Same. Which is why I'm being weird." She finished her pint quickly. "Want to do something stupid before the second half?"

"What kind of stupid?"

"The kind where we're both alone and you're fit and I haven't had sex in three months."

"That kind of stupid."

"Yeah." She nodded toward the accessible toilets. "Bigger. More private. Fewer questions."

The accessible toilet was indeed bigger. Also definitely not designed for this.

Freya locked the door, turned to me with a grin.

"We've got about ten minutes before the second half. Think you can manage?"

"Watch me."

She kissed me—beer-warm, confident. Her hands were under my shirt immediately.

"Been wanting to do this since you sat down," she admitted. "You've got nice arms."

"Thanks?"

"Compliment." She dropped to her knees. "Now let me show my appreciation."

Her mouth was skilled, enthusiastic, exactly what I needed. I grabbed the handrail for support.

"Fuck—Freya—"

She pulled off, stood, wiggled out of her jeans. "Inside me. Quick. Want to get back for kickoff."

Romance was dead. I didn't care.

She hopped up on the counter, spread her legs. I pushed inside, both of us groaning.

"Move—hard—"

I gave her everything, racing the clock. The sounds from the corridor—fans, chanting, movement—made it more intense.

"Close—already—"

She came with a muffled moan. I followed shortly after.

We were back in our seats by kickoff. Freya looked completely composed. I felt like I'd run a marathon.

"You okay?" she asked, grinning.

"Never better."

"Good." She focused on the pitch. "Pay attention. Don't want to miss anything."

We won 2-1. She gave me her number while everyone celebrated.

"Same next home game?"

"Absolutely."

"Good. Brings me luck."

I walked home with three points and a new matchday tradition.

Best Saturday of my life.