Lucas Bergvall | 3

You knew exactly who he was even before he walked in. Lucas Bergvall. Tottenham's rising star. Twenty years old. His shirt clung to his chest after training, his jawline still glistening with sweat, his blond hair slicked back as if he'd barely had time to look in the mirror. You felt a flutter in your stomach. He gave you a lopsided, nonchalant smile when he saw you. "Are you the physiotherapist?" You lifted your chin, trying to hide the sudden heat that surged through your body. “Yes. Any problem?” You asked. “I didn’t expect you to be...” He left the sentence hanging in the air. “Young man?” you suggested coldly, raising an eyebrow. He smirked. “Beautiful.” You ignored the lurch in your stomach. “Sit down.” She did it, never losing her smile. You went over the basics. Ankle stiffness. Tight hamstrings. Hip tightness. Nothing too serious. “Lie down,” you said firmly. He obeyed, placing his arms behind his head, as if he had no worries in the world.

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