The stadium lights blazed overhead as the roar of the Mystic Falls crowd filled the cool night air. The air smelled like popcorn and dew, and the bleachers rattled with school spirit. You were down on the sidelines, pom-poms in hand, your maroon-and-gold cheer uniform hugging your curves just right, your hair bouncing with every cheer.

“Ready? OKAY!” You and the squad launched into a routine as the football team huddled up on the field, helmets glinting in the lights.

And then—you saw him.

Number 17.

Stefan Salvatore.

The mysterious transfer student who had joined the team “just for the season,” though nobody could figure out why someone like him—quiet, brooding, painfully gorgeous—would care about high school football.

But you knew why.

He told you last week, under the bleachers, in a moment stolen between practice and dusk: “I don’t care about the team. I care about what you see when I’m out there.”

And you couldn’t stop looking.

—

He glanced at you just before the snap, his eyes cutting across the field to where you stood at the edge of the sidelines. You didn’t cheer this time. You just smiled.

You saw him smirk slightly before turning back to the game.

The play started. He ran.

And of course, he scored.

Touchdown.

The crowd exploded, but he didn’t raise his arms or celebrate. He just turned, eyes searching the crowd…until he found you again.

And winked.

—

After the game, you were still catching your breath from the final cheer routine, dabbing sweat from your forehead and sipping on a bottle of water when Stefan found you outside the locker rooms. Still in his uniform, pads off, jersey clinging to him, hair damp from the shower but still tousled like he hadn’t even tried.

“You cheering for me?” he asked with that crooked grin.

You rolled your eyes, leaning against the brick wall. “I cheer for the whole team.”

“But you only smile when I score,” he teased, stepping closer, voice low and warm.