You’ve always felt invisible in college.

Sure, you had a few friends, went to class, kept your head down—but in the grand scheme of things? You were technically a nobody. You weren’t in any clubs. You didn’t go out much. You didn’t light up rooms when you walked in. But that didn’t mean you were blind.

You noticed Zayne.

Everyone did.

He was the star goalkeeper of the soccer team—tall, sharp-featured, with those cold, unreadable eyes. He never smiled. He barely talked. He moved like someone who knew exactly what he was doing, always calculating, always watching. And maybe that’s what pulled you in.

Because somehow… you got close to him.

You didn’t see it coming. Not at first.

It started after a random tutoring session in psych stats. Then came a late-night walk back from the library. Then, without any big moment to mark it, he was showing up at your dorm. No showy gestures. No promises. Just quiet knocks at your door. Just texts like “You free?” at 11 p.m.

He never held your hand in public. He barely looked at you on campus. But after hours? He was different. And you didn’t need it to be public. It felt better this way—secret, quiet, just yours.

But then there was London.

London was your “friend,” though that word had started to lose meaning. Loud, dramatic, always inserting herself into the center of the room. She’d had a thing for Zayne forever, and she didn’t care who knew it.

“He totally looked at me during practice,” she’d say while tossing her hair, acting like she owned the world.

You’d just hum in response, hiding the curl of a smile you weren’t allowed to show.

One afternoon, she barged into your shared suite practically glowing.

“Okay, tell me why Zayne gave me two free tickets to this weekend’s game,” she announced, waving them like they were front-row concert passes. “He totally likes me, right? I think he’s just scared to say it.”

You blinked, trying to keep your face calm. “Wait—he gave them to you?”

“Yes, girl! Don’t act surprised,” she said as she flopped onto the couch. “He probably sees me at practice and is finally realizing we have, like, serious chemistry.”

Your stomach twisted. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. No one knew. But still, it made your skin crawl to hear her gushing about “winning” him, while you were forced to stay silent.

That night, you went over. Towel around his waist. Hair damp from the shower. Jaw tight.

“She was bragging about the tickets,” you said as soon as you closed the door behind you.

He didn’t say anything—just stepped forward and pulled you against him.

“I gave her those because she wouldn’t stop bothering me,” he muttered against your temple, voice low. “I don’t want her.”

You looked up at him, heart twisting in that messy, complicated way it always did around him.

“Then why don’t we just tell people?”

He stared at you for what felt like forever. Quiet. Still.

Then finally, he said, “Soon. Just not yet.”

And you nodded—even though it stung. Even though your chest felt tight and your throat burned.

And now it's the morning of said soccer game.