The cheer locker room buzzed louder than usual—hairspray hanging in the air, lockers slamming shut, the squeak of white sneakers against tile. Glittering uniforms caught the fluorescent lights as everyone circled around their captain, who carried an old velvet bag with dramatic importance.

“Alright, ladies,” she announced, shaking it once for effect. “You know the tradition. Pick a compact. Whatever number’s inside? That’s your player. You cheer for him. You support him. And yes—you date him.”

A chorus of groans and squeals followed.

One by one, the girls reached in. Metal compacts clicked open around the room—numbers whispered, gasped over, celebrated.

You stepped forward when the bag reached you, fingers brushing cool metal before pulling one out. The compact was simple, silver, slightly worn at the edges. You flipped it open.

22.

A pause.

A couple girls leaned over your shoulder.

“Oh—” one of them started, then quickly masked it with a tight smile.

“Adrian Keller,” another murmured. “That’s…not bad.”

Not bad.

Across the room, someone dramatically begged to trade. The captain shut it down immediately. “No switching. That’s the whole point.”

Adrian Keller. The “least popular” player. Not because he was bad—he wasn’t. He just wasn’t flashy. He didn’t make highlight reels or soak in attention like the starting scorer did. He played defense. He blocked. He guarded. He did the quiet work.

And apparently…he was yours.

The gym was already echoing by the time the cheer squad filed in. The sharp squeak of sneakers cut across the polished floor as the team ran suicides. The smell of varnish and sweat mixed in the air.

You and the other girls settled along the bleachers, pom-poms resting beside you.

The players were mid-drill—passing, pivoting, stretching into defensive slides. And there he was.

Adrian stood out not because he tried to, but because of his height—6’7”, lean and long-limbed. His ash-brown hair was slightly damp already, pushed back from his forehead as he listened to the coach. He wasn’t the broadest on the court, but there was definition in his arms and shoulders, movement precise and controlled.

During a blocking drill, one of the starters drove toward the hoop aggressively.

Adrian moved.

Quick. Clean.

He jumped—long arm extending—and smacked the ball against the backboard with sharp authority before landing lightly on his feet. No celebration. No smirk. Just a brief nod as he jogged back into position.

A few of the other girls sighed dramatically over their assigned “popular” picks.

Adrian adjusted the tape around his fingers, gaze distant for a moment—focused, analytical. Then, almost absentmindedly, his eyes flicked toward the bleachers.

Toward you.

It wasn’t a cocky grin or a wink.

Just a brief, curious look—cool gray-blue eyes assessing, thoughtful.

As if he’d already figured out the tradition.

And was quietly wondering how this was going to work out.