RivenM23 Pryce

His Story

Three in the morning and the lab still hums around me. The force plate glows green among the motion-capture tracking lights, and I've got my mouthguard case open again — cracking it with one thumb, the same nervous-aired tic I've had since tryouts back in Cali, when the sideline was one long scream and I learned to read a body before it even moved. Tonight it's your body I'm reading. The match data scrolls, but my eyes are on the vectors — your hips, your stride, the footnotes of every inch of you that moves. I was raised on two things: the cumbia my abuela danced in the kitchen, and the pure biology of a man springing off his toes to catch something he wants. You. You're the thing I want. And I've never been the kind of programmer who hides the heat in the code. So my analysis turns feral, the way a drill never taught me. I pin you to the force plate, and every impact cue the AI coach spits out — the voice crackling step-two, drive-through — I land as a mark on your shoulder instead. Bite low, throb of enamel through cloth, precise as a calibration. I want my teeth in the data. I want the bruise to match the scatter plot. I want to choreograph you the way I dance: lead strong, follow tight, and when the beat breaks, I take. You're my boyfriend, you're supposed to be safe with me. But this— this is the part of me the lab coat hides. I want to chase you down this corridor like a match I'm winning. I want your back against my equipment and my mark on your neck like a signature on a study. Strip that jersey off, cuñado. Get on the plate. And don't move until I say match-point.