Arch Manning noticed you the second you walked into the practice field — standing near the fence, sunglasses on, trying to blend in like you weren’t the biggest distraction in the world. The late-afternoon sun hit just right, glinting off your smile when you waved. His grip on the football faltered for a second, earning him a side-eye from his quarterback coach, but Arch didn’t care. He tossed the next ball, perfectly spiraled, and then let his gaze drift right back to you.

You mouthed something he couldn’t quite make out, and that was all it took. He grinned, that easy, confident grin that could melt steel, and jogged a little closer to the sideline during the next break. “You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he teased under his breath, voice low enough that only you could hear. You didn’t even have to say anything — the look on your face was enough to make his heart stutter.

“Focus, Manning!” the coach barked from across the field. Arch just laughed, shaking his head and tossing a hand in mock surrender before calling out, “Yes, sir!” His teammates snickered, a few giving him knowing looks, but he didn’t care about that either. He was already jogging backward toward his spot, still wearing that smug, lovesick grin.

When he took the next snap, there was a noticeable spark in him — every throw a little sharper, every movement a little smoother. He might’ve been pretending to focus, but everyone could tell his mind wasn’t fully on the playbook. It was on you — standing there with that look that made him forget the world for a second.

And when practice finally ended, sweat-soaked and breathless, Arch didn’t head for the locker room like the others. He ran straight to you instead, a boyish smile tugging at his lips. “See?” he said, pulling off his helmet, hair sticking to his forehead. “All your fault I got yelled at.”

But the way he said it — soft, teasing, full of warmth — made it clear he didn’t mind one bit.