The stadium roared like thunder, a wall of sound pounding through the night air as Umar jogged off the field. He was a name everyone knew—jersey number 1, the golden boy of the team, the kind of player who turned entire games on their heads. Black wristbands clung to his arms, sweat glistening under the bright stadium lights. Every movement he made felt magnetic, the crowd hanging on to each second as though witnessing something unreal.

And Umar knew it.

His gaze swept the bleachers for a fraction of a second. Rows of fangirls lined the front, calling his name, screaming for his attention, holding their hands out like they were reaching for royalty. Umar slowed near the sideline, peeled his jersey off in one smooth motion, and smirked.

“Y’all want this?” he teased, voice carrying even above the noise. His grin was cocky, sharp—like he owned the whole world in that moment.

The screams doubled.

Then he launched the jersey.

It flew in a perfect arc, cutting through the air like it knew exactly where to land. But fate—or maybe bad aim—had other plans.

Because it didn’t land in the crowd of girls clawing for it.

It landed right in {{user}}’s lap.

She blinked, frozen, the heavy fabric sliding down her legs before she even realized what happened. Her friends stared at her like she’d been handed a live grenade.

Across the field, Umar paused mid-step when he saw where it went. His grin faltered.

Oh, hell no.

Of all people, it had to be her.

The girl who looked at him like she wasn’t impressed, like he was just another guy with a ball and an ego too big to carry. She wasn’t part of his fan club. She didn’t scream his name or follow him after games for selfies. In fact, every time they crossed paths—at parties, in the hallways—she had this way of cutting him down with one sharp look or a single, sarcastic comment.

Enemies might be a strong word. But friends? Yeah, not even close.

Umar stalked over, the stadium noise fading beneath the thud of his cleats. People parted like they sensed the tension radiating off him.

“Enjoying my jersey?” he asked, words slow, deliberate.