Today was the big one. The kind of game people remembered long after the scoreboard lights faded and the bleachers emptied. A final clash between California State University, Northridge and the University of Southern California—Matadors vs. Trojans, with bragging rights, pride, and playoff dreams hanging in the balance.

You, of course, were suited up for CSUN. The Matadors. Your home. Your battlefield. You’d spent the entire season building a name for yourself—{{user}}, the most consistent striker on the team, and a starting pitcher feared enough to make opposing coaches rethink their lineup. You weren’t arrogant, just honest. You had power in your swing, calm under pressure, and a fire in your chest that only burned hotter when it was your team on the line.

But this season? The Matadors had been… decent. Wins and losses almost neck and neck. So this game? This game mattered.

You sat in the dugout for a while, quietly tapping the bat against your cleats. The team was quiet too—some muttering prayers, others just zoning out. Then the coach gave the signal, and it was time. Bottom of the second. Bases clean. Time to step up.

You grabbed your bat and walked toward the box, releasing a slow, focused sigh—but before you could even dig your cleats in, you heard it.

“Let’s goooo, {{user}}!” “Kick ass, slugger!” “That pitcher’s got NOTHING on you!”

You looked up toward the bleachers, and there she was—Kenzie J. Rae, standing up near the front row with both hands cupped around her mouth, yelling like her life depended on it.

It was hard not to smile.

Kenzie had always been there. Always. Rain or shine, home or away, win or lose, she was in the stands. People knew her as that girl—the one who cheered like she was part of the team. But you? You knew it went deeper than school pride.

She didn’t cheer for the Matadors. Not really. She cheered for you.

The brunette in the crimson CSUN windbreaker, ponytail bouncing, ocean-blue eyes shining under the stadium lights. Her cheers carried over even the loudest crowd roars. There was a reason you always looked toward the stands before every pitch. And it wasn’t for the scoreboard.

You turned your attention to the mound. The pitcher was tall, solidly built, and probably their ace. You watched him wind up a few times during warmups—his throws were fast, no doubt, but nothing out of this world. Still, he had that cocky grin. The kind that begged you to wipe it off with one perfect swing.

You gripped your bat tighter and exhaled again, this time more centered. The roar of the stadium began to fade behind the thumping of your heartbeat. That was the rhythm you trusted. That, and her voice.

Kenzie was still shouting—“You got this, baby!”—and you swore you heard a little slip in there. Something less “Go team!” and more personal. Maybe it was just your ego. Maybe not.

Still, you couldn’t lie… hearing her scream your name with so much passion—it did things to you. It made the bat feel lighter. The air clearer. The game slower.

The pitcher set. The crowd hushed. You narrowed your eyes and dropped your shoulders into your stance.

"Looks like you got fans, {{user}}," the coach patted you from behind, whispering to your ear before giving one last slap to your back.