Puppy In Love
The Leash That Snaps
The celebration for the Supercopa was supposed to be the pinnacle of Sergio’s young career. The trophy sat gleaming on a pedestal in the center of the exclusive Madrid club, surrounded by the elite of the footballing world. But Sergio didn't care about the silver. He didn't care about the flashes of the cameras or the heavy bass of the reggaeton vibrating through the floorboards. His entire world was narrowed down to a single, devastating point of focus in the VIP lounge.
Luka was in the corner. He wasn't alone.
Sergio stood by the bar, his hand white-knuckled around a glass of gin he hadn't touched. He watched as a man—someone older, someone with the polished look of a high-end sports agent or perhaps a retired player—leaned into Luka’s space. The stranger’s hand was resting firmly on the back of Luka’s neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below the hairline.
It was a gesture Sergio knew. It was a gesture he had earned through sweat, through submission, through nights of worshiping at Luka’s feet. And Luka was letting him.
Luka wasn't pulling away. He was leaning back against the velvet upholstery, his head tilted to give the man better access. He was laughing, that soft, melodic sound that Sergio usually had to fight for, and his eyes were bright with an easy, fluid charm. The man whispered something into Luka’s ear, and Luka’s hand—the hand Sergio had kissed until his lips were sore—reached out to rest on the stranger’s thigh.
The air in Sergio’s lungs turned to lead. He felt a physical pain in his chest, a sharp, jagged tearing sensation that made it hard to breathe. He had thought they were past this. He had thought the nights in the penthouse, the bruises on Luka’s thighs, and the whispered "good boy" meant something. He had thought he was the only one allowed to see the fire.
Apparently, he was just one of many who were invited to warm themselves by it.
Sergio turned away, his vision blurring. He felt like a fool. A massive, twenty-two-year-old fool who had mistaken a legend’s amusement for love. He wanted to scream, to flip the tables, to grab that man by the throat and show him exactly how strong a "puppy" could be. But he knew what would happen. Luka would look at him with that cold, disappointed clarity and call him a kid. Luka would tell him he was being loud again.
He couldn't take the condescension tonight. Not when his heart was laying open and bleeding on the club floor.
"Another one," Sergio barked at the bartender, gesturing to his empty glass. "Double. Triple. Whatever you have."
He drank. He drank until the image of Luka in the corner became a hazy, violet smudge. He drank until the jealousy turned from a sharp knife into a dull, throbbing ache. He felt like he was going crazy. He wanted to crawl to Luka’s feet right there in front of the whole team, to wrap his arms around those thick thighs and beg him not to do this. He wanted to cry, to let the tears fall and show Luka exactly how much he had broken him.
But he didn't. Instead, he felt a cold, hard shell form over his desperation. If Luka wanted to play, fine. If Luka wanted to show him that he was replaceable, Sergio would show him that the puppy could find a new master.
"You look like you’re having a terrible time for a champion," a voice purred next to him.
Sergio turned his head slowly. It was a woman he recognized from the fashion magazines—a tall, leggy model with sharp features and eyes that promised trouble. She was looking at him with the kind of hunger he usually reserved for Luka.
"I’m having a great time," Sergio lied, his voice thick and slurred. He looked back at the corner one last time. Luka was gone. The lounge was empty. The ghost of that man’s hand on Luka’s neck was all that remained.
"Prove it," the woman said, sliding a hand onto his bicep.
Sergio looked at her, then back at the bar. He felt a wave of self-loathing so strong it almost made him sick, but he pushed it down. He grabbed the woman by the waist, his large hands digging into her hips with a roughness that made her gasp.
"Let’s get out of here," he growled.
The rest of the night was a blur of neon lights, expensive leather, and a desperate, hollow attempt to feel something other than the crushing weight of Luka’s indifference. He didn't care where they went. He didn't care who saw them. He wanted to be loud. He wanted to be the mess Luka accused him of being.
The next morning, the sun was a physical assault against Sergio’s eyes. He woke up in a hotel room he didn't recognize, the smell of perfume and stale alcohol clinging to the sheets. The woman from the night before was still asleep, her blonde hair spread across the pillow in a way that made Sergio’s stomach turn because it wasn't the right shade of gold.
He dressed in silence, his head throbbing with a rhythmic, agonizing pulse. He felt like a ghost. He walked out of the hotel, his collar turned up, his eyes shielded by sunglasses, but it was too late. The paparazzi were already there, their shutters clicking like a barrage of gunfire.
By the time he reached Valdebebas, the headlines were already screaming across the internet.
*RAMOS: THE WILD CHILD OF MADRID?* *NEW SIGNING SPOTTED LEAVING LUXURY HOTEL WITH MODEL AFTER SUPERCOPA WIN.* *THE MARKS OF A CHAMPION: RAMOS SPOTTED WITH HICKEYS AFTER LATE-NIGHT BENDER.*
Sergio walked into the locker room, his jaw set, his heart a cold stone in his chest. The banter died down as he entered. His teammates were looking at him with a mixture of amusement and concern. Marcelo whistled low, pointing to the purple mark on Sergio’s neck that he hadn't even bothered to cover.
"Busy night, Sergio?" Marcelo asked, though his eyes were darting toward the other side of the room.
Sergio didn't answer. He sat at his locker and began to change into his training gear. He could feel a gaze burning into his back, a cold, heavy pressure that made the hair on his arms stand up.
"Sergio. My office. Now."
Luka’s voice was like a whip crack. It wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that silenced the room instantly. Sergio didn't look up. He finished tying his boots, stood up, and followed the veteran toward the small tactical office at the back of the facility.
As soon as the door closed, the air in the small room became suffocating. Luka didn't sit down. He stood behind the desk, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression a mask of frigid, professional fury.
"What is this?" Luka asked, gesturing to a tablet on the desk that displayed the morning’s headlines.
Sergio leaned against the door, crossing his own arms. He felt a surge of defiant anger. "It’s a newspaper, Luka. I thought you could read."
Luka’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous spark flickering in the blue. "Don't be smart with me. You are a representative of this club. You are a new signing who is supposed to be focusing on his development, not making a spectacle of himself in the tabloids."
"I was celebrating," Sergio spat. "Isn't that what we do after a win? Or is that only reserved for you and your 'friends' in the VIP lounge?"
Luka stiffened. The silence stretched between them, thick and volatile. "Is that what this is about? You saw me talking to a colleague and you decided to throw a tantrum like a spoiled child?"
"A colleague?" Sergio laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "He had his hands on you, Luka! He was touching you like he owned you! And you let him. You loved it. I was standing ten feet away and you didn't even look at me."
"Because you are a teammate, Sergio!" Luka stepped around the desk, his voice rising in a rare show of emotion. "We were at a public event. Did you expect me to kneel for you in front of the president? Did you expect me to ignore a man I’ve known for ten years because you can’t control your own pathetic jealousy?"
"I’m not jealous," Sergio lied, his voice trembling. "I’m disgusted. I thought I meant something to you. I thought the things we did... I thought I was yours."
Luka stopped in front of him. He was so much shorter, so much smaller, yet he seemed to fill the entire room. He reached out, his fingers gripping Sergio’s chin, forcing him to look down. His eyes landed on the hickey on Sergio’s neck, and his expression twisted into something truly ugly.
"You are mine," Luka whispered, his voice a low, vibrating threat. "But you are also a fool. You think that by running to the first woman who looked at you, you’ve proven something? You’ve proven that you’re exactly what I said you were. A puppy. Unreliable. Lacking in discipline."
"Then let me go!" Sergio shouted, pulling his chin away. "If I’m so unreliable, if I’m such a burden, then stop calling me! Stop letting me into your bed! Go back to your 'colleagues' who know how to be quiet and professional!"
He turned to the door, his hand on the handle, but Luka was faster. He slammed his hand against the wood, pinning Sergio in place.
"You don't get to walk away," Luka hissed. "You don't get to embarrass me in the press and then tuck your tail between your legs. You want to be a man, Sergio? Then act like one. Own your mistakes."
"My mistake was thinking you had a heart," Sergio said, his voice breaking. The anger was draining out of him, leaving only the raw, bleeding hollow of his despair. He looked down at Luka, his eyes wet. "I would have done anything for you. I would have been your dog forever. But you don't want a dog. You want a statue. Something that doesn't feel, something that doesn't care when you look at other men."
Luka’s hand on the door trembled slightly. His gaze softened, the fury replaced by a weary, complicated frustration. He reached out, his hand sliding up Sergio’s chest to rest over his heart.
"You’re so loud, Sergio," Luka murmured, his voice losing its edge. "Your heart is so loud it gives me a headache."
"Then stop listening," Sergio choked out.
"I can't," Luka admitted. He stepped closer, his body pressing against Sergio’s. "You think I wasn't angry when I saw those photos this morning? You think I enjoyed seeing you with her?"
"You were angry because of the press," Sergio said.
"I was angry because you are mine!" Luka snapped, his fingers digging into Sergio’s shoulders. "And the thought of anyone else touching what belongs to me makes me want to burn this city to the ground. But I am thirty-five years old, Sergio. I have a reputation. I have a life that existed long before you arrived with your big eyes and your desperate heart."
Sergio looked at him, hope flickering like a dying candle in the wind. "Then why were you with him? Why did you let him touch you like that?"
Luka sighed, resting his forehead against Sergio’s chest. "He is an old friend. A man who helped me when I had nothing. There is no fire there, Sergio. There hasn't been for years. It was a gesture of affection, nothing more."
"It didn't look like nothing more," Sergio whispered.
"Because you were looking for a reason to be hurt," Luka said, looking up at him. "You are so afraid of losing me that you’re sabotaging the very thing you want to keep."
Luka reached up, his thumb tracing the bruise on Sergio’s neck. His touch was clinical, almost cruel. "This... this is unacceptable. You will not do this again. You will not seek comfort in the arms of strangers because you are too immature to handle a conversation."
"I’m sorry," Sergio breathed, the weight of his own actions finally crashing down on him. He felt the shame return, hot and suffocating. "I was drunk. I was angry. I just wanted to stop feeling like I was invisible to you."
"You are never invisible to me," Luka said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "But you are in trouble, puppy. Serious trouble."
Luka grabbed Sergio by the collar of his training shirt and yanked him down, his lips brushing against Sergio’s ear. "You think a night with a model makes you a man? I’m going to show you exactly how much work you still have to do. You’re going to spend the next week at my beck and call. Every meal, every errand, every whim. And if I see so much as a stray glance at another person, I will lock you out of my life so fast you’ll forget you ever played for this club."
"Yes, Luka," Sergio whispered, a thrill of submission racing through his veins. The leash was back, tighter than ever, and he welcomed the burn of it.
"And Sergio?"
"Yeah?"
Luka leaned back, his eyes dark and predatory. "That mark on your neck? You’re going to leave it. And every time someone asks you about it, you’re going to remember that the only reason it’s there is because you weren't strong enough to wait for me. Let it be a reminder of your failure."
Sergio nodded, his heart hammering. He felt like he was drowning, but as Luka’s hand slid down to grip his thigh—the muscle jumping beneath the touch—he knew he would happily sink to the bottom of the ocean if Luka was the one holding him down.
"Now get out there," Luka commanded, turning back toward his desk. "Train until you can’t stand. I want you exhausted when you come to me tonight. I have a lot of things I want you to do, and I don't want you having the energy to complain."
Sergio walked out of the office, his head held high despite the headlines and the marks on his skin. He could feel the eyes of the team on him, but he didn't care. He had his orders. He had his master.
The puppy had strayed, and he had been bitten for it. But as he stepped out onto the pitch, the sun finally feeling warm instead of piercing, Sergio knew he would never wander again. The weight of Luka’s crown was heavy, and the leash was short, but it was the only place in the world he wanted to be.
He was home. And tonight, he would make sure Luka forgot every other man who had ever dared to touch him. The fire was back, and this time, Sergio was going to let it consume him entirely.