Leeds Match | NEON LIT

Leeds United had just beaten Bradford City 3-1, and the Cardigan Arms was divided right down the middle. White shirts on one side, claret and amber on the other, and enough tension that the bartenders looked ready to call the police.

I was three pints in and feeling generous. "Good match, that," I called across the invisible line. "Your lads gave it proper effort."

"Piss off." The voice came from a woman my age, thick Yorkshire accent dripping contempt. She was wearing a Bradford shirt stretched across a body that the Athletic's fitness standards definitely didn't require—proper curvy, with hips that looked capable of body-checking defenders. "Don't need your sympathy."

"Wasn't sympathy. Just saying—"

"What you're saying is patronizing bollocks and we both know it." She pushed off her stool and crossed the invisible line, pint in hand, until she was close enough that I could smell perfume under the pub atmosphere. "You lot win one derby and suddenly you're magnanimous? Where was that energy when you were in League One?"

"That's harsh."

"Truth usually is." She didn't back down, and up close, she was even more arresting. Dark hair, sharp eyes, cheekbones that could cut glass, and a mouth set in a line that dared me to keep talking.

So I kept talking. For an hour. About football, first, then about the cities we came from—her a Bradford lass born and bred, me a Leeds transplant from Sheffield. About the jobs we hated, the families that drove us mad, the relationships that had recently imploded.

"You're not completely terrible," she admitted eventually. "For a Leeds fan."

"High praise. Can I buy you a drink?"

"You can if you admit that penalty decision was dodgy."

"It was a stone-cold penalty."

"Then you can't buy me a drink."

I bought her a drink anyway. She accepted it while maintaining that I was morally compromised by my football allegiances.

"I'm Dani, by the way," she said. "Since we've been rowing for an hour without introductions."

"Jake."

"Right then, Jake." She clinked her glass against mine. "Here's to dodgy penalties and heated debates."

The pub called last orders at eleven. We were the last ones at our corner of the bar, having somehow migrated to the same side of the invisible line without noticing.

"I should go," she said, not moving.

"Probably."

"My flat's ten minutes' walk." Still not moving. "If you wanted to continue the debate. Somewhere quieter."

"Thought Leeds fans weren't welcome in Bradford."

"Consider it an away fixture." She grabbed her jacket. "Coming or not?"

Her flat was exactly what I'd expected—Bradford colors everywhere, scarves framed on walls, a proper shrine to a proper club. She poured us both whisky without asking and settled onto a sofa that groaned under our combined weight.

"Right then." She tucked her legs beneath her. "Before anything else happens, I need to know. Can you accept that your team's success is built on questionable officiating and a manager who looks like a supply teacher?"

"Can you accept that Bradford's best days are behind them and the past isn't coming back?"

"Harsh." But she was smiling. "I like harsh."

"Noticed that."

"Noticed you noticing." She set down her glass. "So here's my proposition. We continue being rivals. We continue arguing about football. But we also acknowledge that there's something else happening here. Something that has nothing to do with the pitch."

"What kind of something?"

Instead of answering, she kissed me. It was fierce, competitive, exactly like the debate had been—both of us trying to win while secretly hoping the other would push back harder. Her mouth was whisky and want, and when her hands fisted in my shirt, I stopped caring about league tables entirely.

"Bedroom," she gasped when we broke apart. "Now."

The bedroom continued the Bradford theme, but I was past caring about interior design. Dani stripped with the efficiency of someone who knew exactly what she wanted, revealing a body that was all curves and confidence. Thick thighs, soft belly, breasts that required immediate attention.

"Come on then." She pulled me down. "Show me what Leeds lads are good for."

I showed her. We wrestled for dominance the way we'd wrestled with words, neither willing to concede ground. She was strong, demanding, vocal in ways that probably told her neighbors exactly what was happening. And when she finally let me take control, it was with a gasp that sounded like victory and defeat combined.

"There," she commanded. "Right there. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

I didn't stop. I gave her everything I had while she gave it right back, two rivals finding common ground in the most primal way possible. She came with a shout that might have been my name, clenching around me hard enough that I followed immediately, both of us collapsing into sheets that smelled like her.

"Acceptable," she said afterward. "For an away performance."

"Just acceptable?"

"Fine. Above average." She rolled to face me. "Here's the thing, Jake. I'm not interested in whatever this is becoming anything serious. You're a Leeds fan. I have standards."

"Fair enough."

"But." Her hand traced down my chest. "I'm also not interested in this being a one-off. Derby's twice a year. I propose we make this a regular fixture. Rivals with benefits. No feelings, no complications, just this."

"And the arguing?"

"Especially the arguing." She kissed me, quick and hard. "Foreplay's essential."

We've been doing this for two years now. Derby day, we watch at separate pubs, text abuse at each other through the match, then meet up after for the kind of competition that doesn't require a referee. Leeds is currently top of the league. Bradford's fighting relegation.

The sex, somehow, keeps getting better. Maybe rivalry really is the best aphrodisiac. Or maybe we've just found the one thing Leeds and Bradford can agree on—each other, in the dark, with all that passionate opposition focused somewhere productive.

Either way, I've never looked forward to an away fixture more.