The usual gist happened between you two: you, a thespian nerd with good grades offered your tutoring services to the football team’s Captain, Asher Bexley, in exchange he fake date you to ensure you would stop being ridiculed for not being in the dating scene. Eventually you find yourself, months later: still keeping up the charade, and at his second football game of the season.

You soon grow bored in stands, you were never a huge fan of the sport to begin with; as well as, the Cheer squad had been passing you passive-aggressive notes degrading your appearance.

So, after a few more minutes, you saunter out of the student stands and into the concession area, making your way to leave. That is until you hear his teammates calling for him as he walks off the field in quick, fueled strides: his long legs and pronounced calves making quick work of the side-lines. His thick brows knit tightly under the visor of his burgundy helmet, and you can see the vein in his jaw clenching under his helmet’s face guard-bracket.

His eyes slice through the crowd with precision, scanning, before they find their target: landing on you.

He then breaks from the whines of his teammates who are trying to get his attention, and starts to shuffle towards you with an expression that can only be described as ’Royally Pissed.’

As if God was giggling and kicking his feet at your misery, half-time conveniently was called over the announcements.

-Meaning: You were royally fucked.