Chapter 1

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. Before she left, she smiled and said to us, "You two better enjoy the games, but don't get too excited 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.

Johan Carter, my stepfather, was forty-two years old. He used to be a starting midfielder for the U.S. national team and now worked as a football commentator for ESPN. He was also an assistant coach for the national team. He had maintained an excellent physique — broad shoulders, narrow waist, and arms and chest full of strength from years of training, yet not overly bulky. It had been over two years since Mom remarried and he moved into our house. He had always been gentle with me, caring for my studies, emotions, and future like a real father.

But at some point, I started having strange reactions. Every time I saw him doing stretches in the living room wearing a tight training T-shirt, or walking around the kitchen in nothing but athletic shorts, my heart would inexplicably skip a beat.

"Miranda, come help me for a second," Johan called that evening. He had moved the living room sofa aside and rolled up the rug, revealing the clean wooden floor underneath. He was wearing a simple black tank top, and the muscles on his shoulders and arms were clearly visible under the light.

"Okay," I replied, trotting over to help.

He suggested turning the living room into a small home viewing room — a large projector, U.S. national team flags, player posters, a snack station, and even special string lights for watching matches. I wasn't particularly interested in football before, but seeing how enthusiastic he was, I couldn't help but get caught up in it too.

I was wearing a loose white camisole and gray home shorts, my hair tied into a casual ponytail. I climbed the ladder to hang up the national team jerseys. One of them had "CARTER 8" printed on the back — Johan's old number from his national team days.

"Careful, sweetheart," Johan said from below the ladder, his large hands steadying my waist.

His palms were very warm. Even through the thin fabric, I could clearly feel the heat of his fingers and the slight pressure from his thumbs. My body stiffened instantly, and my heartbeat suddenly quickened.

"…Yeah, I know," I answered softly, trying to focus on the hook in my hands. But he was so close. His chest was almost pressed against my back, and I could smell the faint scent of his body wash mixed with a warm, masculine aroma.

After hanging the jerseys on one wall, I missed a step while coming down the ladder. He immediately wrapped his arms around my waist, catching me firmly and holding me against his chest for two full seconds.

"You okay?" He looked down at me, his voice low, gentle, and slightly amused. Those deep brown eyes looked especially focused under the light.

"I-I'm fine…" My cheeks burned. I quickly stepped out of his embrace and lowered my head to fix my clothes. My camisole had gotten a bit twisted earlier. As I hurriedly adjusted it, I noticed his gaze sweep across my collarbone and chest for a brief moment before quickly looking away.

That night, we officially started our first viewing session.

The projector cast a massive green pitch across the wall. The U.S. team's match was about to begin. Johan sat in the center of the sofa, and I naturally sat beside him. He was wearing only a pair of black athletic shorts, his upper body bare. His firm chest and abdominal lines rose and fell slightly under the glow of the TV.

"Come here, baby. Scoot a little closer," he said, patting the spot next to him. His arm naturally rested on the back of the sofa. I hesitated for a second, then moved closer. Our shoulders touched lightly, and our thighs pressed together.

As the match progressed, his excitement gradually rose. Every time the U.S. team made a beautiful pass or shot, he would excitedly pat my thigh, his deep voice full of energy: "Beautiful! Did you see that, Miranda? That's what real team football looks like!"

His palms were large and hot. Every pat sent a faint electric current across the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. I bit my lip, trying hard to focus on the screen, but I couldn't stop secretly glancing at his side profile — at the sharp line of his jaw tightening with excitement.

During halftime, he got up to grab a beer and handed me a can of Coke. When he sat back down, he pulled me even closer, letting my head rest on his shoulder.

"Tired? Want to lean on Daddy and rest for a bit?" His voice was soft, yet carried a gentleness that was impossible to refuse.

I gave a soft "Mm" and leaned my head against him. His skin was hot, his shoulder broad and solid, giving me a strange sense of security. My heart beat faster and faster, and one sentence kept repeating in my mind:

This is Dad… This is my stepfather…

But why did this closeness feel so comfortable… and why did I secretly crave even more?

In the first half, the U.S. team scored first. He turned to me excitedly and planted a gentle kiss on my forehead.

"Our team is pretty great, right, baby?"

At that moment, my face burned fiercely, and my heart felt like it was about to jump out of my chest. I could only reply in a small voice:

"…Yeah… they're great."

We spent the entire evening sitting side by side on the sofa, watching the match. His hand would occasionally land on my leg, patting gently or unconsciously stroking. And I spent the night in repeated heart flutters and self-reminders.

I didn't know how this World Cup would change things.

But that night, I realized clearly for the first time —

Something between Johan and me had quietly begun to shift.