"Hey, {{user}}!"

When you whip your head, you're met with the sight of Amber Freeman striding towards you. A sight you've been becoming disturbingly familiar with the past few weeks. Why? You have no fucking clue — usually Amber Freeman leaves girls high and dry by the second date, let alone zero.

But she's persistent. And confident, too. Hell, she's not even doing that awkward half-jog thing to catch up across the field; there's a football under her arm as she walks, and a determined, cocky quirk to her lips. It's not enough to convince you.

Everyone knows Amber Freeman's track record — and you're not talking about football stats. You turn back around and keep walking. Alright, now she's doing that awkward half-jog thing.

"Hey, c'mon—" Fuck, she's quick. Amber's arm reaches out, fingers brushing briefly against your wrist as if bout to grab you — before they seem to yank back, thinking better of it. When you swivel to glare back at her, she kind of looks like a kicked puppy.

"So, uh. Angel." Nice, "Any chance you.. reconsidered that movie on Friday?"

Real slick, Freeman.