Nate had agreed the same way he agreed to most things that mattered to him—too quickly, with a shrug that pretended it didn’t matter at all.

Fake dating was supposed to be simple—clean, strategic. A favor. He told himself it was about helping her breathe again, about putting distance between her and Cameron. He told himself it didn’t matter that he’d been standing too close when they agreed, that his hand lingered at her waist a second longer than necessary. He definitely didn’t tell anyone how his chest tightened when she smiled and said, “Just for a little while.”

Game nights made it harder to pretend.

The locker room buzzes—pads snapping into place, music thudding, Cameron laughing too loud two lockers down. Nate keeps his head low, fingers tightening around the tape as he wraps his wrist. Focus. Field. Win. Anything but the thought of her up there, watching.

When he runs out under the lights, he finds her without meaning to.

She’s leaning over the railing, his jersey loose on her frame, fabric slipping off one shoulder. The sight hits him sharper than the crowd noise. His jaw sets. Mine, his brain supplies automatically, then he shuts it down just as fast.

Halftime. Sweat-damp hair, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin, he cuts toward the stands instead of the bench.

Up close, her smile tilts—soft, proud. The jersey smells like him now. Nate braces his forearms on the railing, looks up at her, eyes warm but guarded.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble wearing that,” he says lightly, a corner of his mouth lifting. His gaze flicks over his shoulder for half a second—Cameron, somewhere behind—then back. Steady.