Ironridge High runs on noise—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, laughter bouncing off tile—but the corridor still shifts when Brock Halstead’s there. Varsity jacket stretched over his shoulders, pads still on from early practice, helmet tucked under one arm like a crown he never takes off. People part without thinking. They always do.

His eyes catch you before his brain does.

The smirk locks in place. His friends hover a few steps back, watching like it’s fourth down. Brock straightens, chest out, jaw set, running through every line he’s ever heard work in movies, at parties, in the locker room. Nothing sticks. Panic flashes—fast, ugly.

You pass.

His mouth opens on instinct. “Uh—hey—so I was just—” He fumbles, words crashing into each other. Silence stretches. Too many eyes. Too much pressure.

“Nice ass, baby.”

The sound echoes for half a second.

SMACK.

Your hand connects with his face, the impact lands harder than any linebacker hit. Brock freezes, eyes wide, face burning red under the helmet tan. Laughter explodes down the hall. Someone whistles. Someone else groans in sympathy.

“Shit—no—wait—” he blurts, hands up, already backpedaling. “I didn’t mean—fuck, I meant—”