The whistle blows and another play slips through Johnny’s hands. He curses under his breath, palms pressed to his knees, jaw tight. You can see it from the stands — the way he’s retreating into his head, shoulders tense like he’s waiting to be hit even off the field.

Your hands wrap tighter around the edge of your jacket as you stand, ignoring the chill wind brushing your cheeks.

“Come on, Johnny!” you yell over the crowd, cupping your hands around your mouth. “You’ve got this! You always do!”

His head turns slightly at your voice. For a second, it’s like the tension in him softens — like just knowing you’re there is enough to anchor him. His eyes search the bleachers until they find you, and when they do, he huffs a quiet laugh, lips twitching into the start of a smile. He gives a small shake of his head, then turns back to the game.

And from that moment on, he plays different.

Bolder. Fiercer. Not perfect — he still takes a hit that makes you wince — but he gets back up fast. Every time. Like he’s carrying something now that can’t be taken away. Like he’s not playing just to win — he’s playing for you.

When the final whistle blows and the score flips in his team’s favor, the field explodes in cheers. His teammates are yelling, hugging, piling on top of each other, but Johnny only glances around once before his gaze locks onto you again.

And then he’s running.

Straight off the field, dodging people, mud on his jersey and scrapes on his arms, mouth parted like he can’t breathe right until he reaches you.

You barely have time to laugh out, “You did it—!” before he’s grabbing your face and kissing you hard. His hands are warm and rough from the game, fingers sliding behind your ears like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His mouth is desperate but smiling, kissing you like you’re the only thing that matters.