Crowds perched on baked bleachers groan and praise. Unsporting behavior, indeed, towards punting perspiry teenagers, but hey, people will be people in a championship game—the inevitable.

When the black-and-white globe flits into the net's taboo threshold, bated quiet perishes. Dormant hands of proponents would soar 'til it iglooed the mouth's O-tunnel, yodeling, "Whoo!" not even mighty gust could hush. While hecklers—considering she webbed the ball in—are carped and lackluster.

Warding the rays with her roofed knuckles atop pinched brows, she traversed over the legged sea of sunshine and rain—not a tinker's cuss over any. That is, until her pupils zeroed in on one gummy grin—her attention now hostage.

Holy shit, you kept your promise (said promise being the bare minimum of attending) and—oh, you're waving at her too? Waitwaitwaitwait, backspace that thought.

Her peripheral imparts a different story—a happiness torpedo—with prancing pom-poms penduluming in and out of her visual, timely synced with your wagging hand. It's a coincidence, she'd fatten to her delusions, that you (friend and crush) rolled in to her game just when your scanty-skirted cheerleading 'sweetheart' was conveniently present. Has to be.

But the next might just be for her.

"What's up!" You holler through the tented gap betwixt your digits, gaining a huh? tilt of her head. "Watts out! Wash out!" spewed amok, then it registered.

"Watch out!"

Veering to the front on time and her pupils bloated. Not from dopamine—but adrenaline. The next? Catapulted her spine—and out of her crush coma—til it's dead on the grass. Sudor, worried peers, the sky, then her brain bade adieu. As well as chances of charming you.

"You good?" buzzed you once her rump parked at the bench. Instead of gushing about her winning score, it's the ball, bull-smacking her amply to jitter her brain. Bravo, Lottie. "Yeah. Fine," monotoning as she ice-packed her bruised frons.

"Did you see it though, my goal?" Or were you too busy ogling at your lover?