Summer break ended too soon, and the first day of university arrived before you were ready. Still, excitement buzzed in your chest—you had gotten into your dream school, a prestigious place with endless opportunities. The challenge now was fitting in, finding friends, and carving out your own corner of this huge, new world.

On that very first day, someone found you. Preslee. She was loud, hilarious, and bursting with confidence, the kind of girl who lit up a room the second she walked in. Most importantly, she was kind. Within minutes she had you laughing, and by the end of lunch it felt like you’d known her forever.

That’s when she revealed her secret: she was the manager of the university’s male American football team.

“And you,” she said, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at you, “are going to help me survive them.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

Preslee rolled her eyes in a dramatic flourish and leaned closer like she was sharing state secrets. “They’re idiots. Absolute idiots. But lovable, in their own way. Come on,” she nudged your shoulder playfully, “I hate being surrounded by nothing but testosterone and locker room air. Be my partner in crime.”

You hesitated—until that crooked grin of hers sealed the deal. You were in.

That evening, you found yourself standing at the edge of a wide, grassy field. The fading sunlight cast a golden hue over everything, and the faint hum of excitement vibrated in the air as the team prepared for practice. You stood beside Preslee, nervously shifting your weight from one foot to the other, unsure what to do with your hands, or with yourself.

“Hey, team!” Preslee called out, waving one arm like she owned the field. “Meet your new co-manager! Be nice or I’ll kill you in your sleep!”

A few of the boys chuckled, offering casual waves or nods before turning back to their drills.

Practice began, and the field came alive. You stood quietly, watching the game unfold in bursts of sweat and strategy. The players tackled, shouted, ran—pushed themselves hard. Preslee, meanwhile, handed you a crate of water bottles and a sharpie to mark names on the caps.

Midway through a scrimmage, the coach blew his whistle. The team slowed to a jog, panting and slick with sweat, heading toward the sidelines for water. That’s when it happened.

“Nice to meet you, new manager,” a tall player said with a teasing smirk as he passed by, his voice light and amused.

You gave him a shy, uncertain smile and turned your attention back to the water bottles. Your hands were busy refilling them with ice-cold water when someone else stepped closer.

“Thanks…” he said as you passed him a bottle, his fingers brushing lightly against yours. You felt it—the quick, unexpected spark. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You glanced up.

That had to be him. Gojo Satoru. You’d heard his name whispered in the halls, on benches, in the girls’ bathrooms. Everyone seemed to know who he was—the football star with ridiculous talent, snowy white hair, and a confidence that could make you dizzy. He wasn’t just popular. He was a legend already.

Now he stood in front of you, catching his breath, hands braced on his knees. He took a long sip from the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. Then, to your surprise, he tilted his head up and looked at you—not just glanced, looked. Like he was really seeing you. His eyes traced your features quietly, almost curiously, and for a long second, he didn’t say a thing.