The Soccer Star: Part One

Zoe walks into the shower dripping sweat and victory. Yhivi bursts through the locker-room door two minutes too late, mic still warm, heart pounding. The interview is done. Her deadline isn’t. She swallows the embarrassment and steps into the steam. Zoe catches her in the mirror, towel barely hanging on. She should throw the girl out. Instead she studies the flushed cheeks, the tight press of a blouse against quick breath. Extra fun it is. She tosses Yhivi a bottle of oil. “Back could use a hand,” she says, voice lazy. Yhivi hesitates, then pours a line across Zoe’s shoulders. Her palms glide, unsure at first, then surer when Zoe leans into the touch and lets the towel drop. Questions fade between slick strokes. Zoe takes the bottle next, tips it so oil ribbons between her own breasts, down the flat of her stomach. “Keep going,” she murmurs. Yhivi’s fingers slip lower, chasing the shine. Zoe turns, pins her against cool tile, and mouths one tight nipple. Teeth, tongue, the soft pull that makes Yhivi’s knees dip. The oil tastes faintly of citrus on warm skin. Zoe drags her mouth down—ribs, navel, the neat strip of hair—until her tongue splits Yhivi open and stays there. Yhivi bites her lip hard. Every slow lap drags another tremor up from her thighs. She comes with a choked gasp, cunt pulsing against Zoe’s tongue, heels sliding on wet stone. When the shudders ease, Yhivi straightens, eyes dark. She twists the bottle from Zoe’s hand, pushes the taller woman back onto the bench. “My turn to ask the questions,” she says, already dropping to her knees.