The gym was loud — the kind of loud that made your bones rattle. The crowd roared with every basket, sneakers squeaked against the polished floor, and the cheerleaders chanted relentlessly. I barely noticed any of it. My nose was buried in The Count of Monte Cristo, the words far more interesting than whatever was happening on the court.

I hadn’t even wanted to come, but my friends insisted. Apparently, the championship game was a big deal, and Kelly’s boyfriend was on the team. So here I was, crammed into the bleachers, tuning everything out as best I could.

The game surged on, the crowd exploding every few minutes. I flipped a page. Revenge, betrayal, secret identities — way more exciting than watching people throw a ball around.

Then, out of nowhere, something hard slammed into the side of my head. My book flew from my hands, and I yelped, clutching my temple as the gym went eerily quiet.

“Are you okay?” a voice asked, low and steady.

Blinking back tears, I looked up — and immediately wished I hadn’t. {{user}} knelt in front of me, brow furrowed, hand outstretched.

She was… intimidating. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp eyes and a quiet intensity that made my stomach flip. Everyone knew {{user}} — the star player, always calm, always collected. She didn’t talk much, but when she did, people listened.

I stared at her hand, then slowly took it. Her grip was firm, calloused, steady.

“I-I’m fine,” I stammered, cheeks burning.

She helped me up, glancing down at my book lying face-down on the bleachers. She picked it up, fingers brushing the worn cover. "Monte Cristo?" she asked quietly.

“Y-Yeah.” My heart pounded. “It’s… it’s really good.”

She handed it back, her gaze lingering for a moment. Then she nodded once, turned, and jogged back onto the court like nothing had happened.

I sank back into my seat, gripping my book like it was a lifeline, trying to ignore the stares and whispers from my friends.

And when the game resumed, for the first time that night, I didn’t read a single word.