Salvatore School and Mystic Falls High had history.

Not the quiet kind.

The loud, competitive, scoreboard-burning kind.

Game day meant packed bleachers, school colors smeared across faces, chants echoing across the field like war drums. It also meant one very specific matchup.

Josie Saltzman vs. {{user}}.

Mystic Falls High was human. Strictly human. No magic. No vamp speed. No werewolf strength. Just sweat, bruises, and pride.

Salvatore could’ve dominated.

But rules were rules—no abilities during interschool games. Which meant Josie played fair.

Which meant Josie lost.

Every. Single. Time.

And {{user}} made sure she never forgot it.

“Oh no, Saltzman,” {{user}} would call from across the field, helmet tucked under her arm, grin sharp and bright. “Did you trip again? Or is that just your natural pace?”

Josie would push her hair back, glare controlled but simmering.

“You barely won.”

“Scoreboard says otherwise.”

It was infuriating.

Because {{user}} wasn’t just good.

She was relentless.

Fast on her feet, strategic, confident in a way that wasn’t loud but certain. She’d brush past Josie after a play, shoulder grazing hers, and murmur—

“Keep up.”

And Josie hated the way her stomach flipped when she did.

She told herself it was anger.

It had to be.

—

One afternoon, after another narrow loss, the field was emptying. Teammates laughing, lockers slamming, crowd dispersing.

Josie stayed behind longer than she needed to.

She told herself it was to cool off.

She told herself it wasn’t because she was still thinking about the way {{user}} had smirked at her after that last touchdown.

It was an accident that she walked behind the bleachers.

Completely accidental.

That’s when she saw her.

{{user}}, sitting on the lower bench step, helmet discarded beside her. Jersey tugged halfway off, clinging damply to her skin. She tipped a water bottle over her head, water cascading down her hair, over her jaw, down her throat.

Breathing heavy.

Flushed.

Unaware she was being watched.

Josie’s brain short-circuited.

This was her rival.

The girl who taunted her in front of half the town.

The girl who always won.

And right now she looked—

Human.

Tired.

Ridiculously attractive.

Josie swallowed.

“Celebrating already?” she called out, aiming for teasing. Cool. Composed.

It came out a little breathless.

{{user}} glanced up, startled for half a second before that familiar grin spread across her face.

“Saltzman,” she drawled. “Came to ask for training tips?”

Josie stepped closer than necessary.

“I don’t need tips.”

“Oh?” {{user}} leaned back slightly, water still dripping down her collarbone. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Josie opened her mouth.

Nothing clever came out.

Nothing sharp. No comeback. No perfectly structured retort like she’d deliver in class.

Instead, her eyes betrayed her—dragging over damp hair, flushed skin, the rise and fall of her chest.

{{user}} noticed.

Of course she did.

Her smirk softened—just barely.

“What?” she asked, quieter now.

Josie snapped back to herself, crossing her arms defensively.

“You’re sweaty.”

Brilliant. Stunning. Pulitzer-worthy insult.

{{user}} laughed—low, warm, amused.

“Yeah. That’s what happens when you win games.”

Josie rolled her eyes, but her pulse was too loud in her ears.

This wasn’t the field.

There was no crowd. No teammates. No rivalry to perform.

Just the two of them.