The field buzzed — students in designer coats pretending they knew the rules, the smell of turf and privilege hanging thick in the air. Players warmed up, sticks snapping, cleats scraping. Loud energy everywhere.

Except the spot you claimed on the sideline.

Hands in your pockets, backpack still slung over one shoulder. You stood like someone who accidentally wandered here — not like someone who’d crossed campus on purpose.

But James saw you the second you arrived.

That brief falter in his passing drill? Yeah, that was you.

He tried to play it off, jaw tightening, fixing his grip on the stick like the world hadn’t just shifted two degrees. He nodded at a teammate’s joke, but his eyes kept dragging back to you standing there, earbuds in, face unreadable, pretending the air wasn’t colder without him close.