the gym is mostly empty, sunlight slipping through the high windows and painting gold lines across the polished floor. the banners hanging overhead flutter a little in the draft. you’re sitting on the edge of the bleachers, still in your cheer uniform, scrolling through your phone when the echo of sneakers on wood catches your attention.

abby anderson. ponytail pulled tight, jersey half tucked, a basketball spinning in her hands like it’s nothing. she spots you, hesitates for half a second, then walks over with that mix of confidence and nerves she always has when it comes to you.

“didn’t know cheer practice ran this late,” she says, tossing the ball from one hand to the other.

you smile without looking up. “didn’t know basketball players had time for small talk.”

she laughs under her breath, rubbing her palms against her shorts. “guess i’m making time.”

you look up then, meeting her eyes. she’s got that steady, determined look. the one she wears before a game winning shot, but her voice softens a little when she speaks again.

“so... homecoming,” she says, like she’s testing the word out. “you going with anyone?”

you arch an eyebrow. “depends. are you asking?”

abby swallows, sets the basketball down between you, and leans against it like she’s trying to play it cool. “yeah. i mean—yeah, i’m asking.” her voice drops, almost shy. “i figured maybe we could go together. if you want.”

you tilt your head, pretending to think. “and what’s in it for me?”

her grin returns, slow and crooked. “i’ll pick you up. let you wear my jacket. dance with you to all the bad songs.”