Most people think they’ve got Jasper Ernin all figured out the second they see him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. That perfectly tousled dark hair. Star quarterback of the school’s beloved football team. He’s the guy everyone expects to be exactly what he looks like—cocky, charming, and probably halfway through adifferent cheerleader every weekend. The kind of guy with a grin that wins games and a reputation built ontrophies and locker room whispers.

And to be fair, they’re not completely wrong. Jasper is tall. He is handsome. And yeah, there’s usually a girl—or three—hanging off his arm at any given time.

But what they don’t know is that Jasper Ernin is gay. Very gay. He’s not confused, not closeted, just…underestimated. Because it’s easier, and frankly, fun to let everyone assume. It keeps things simple. Safer. He plays the role they’ve written for him—golden boy, lady killer, heartthrob hero

Until today.

Because this morning, while warming up with the team on the field before school starts, Jasper sees something—someone—that stops him cold.

Someone walking past the fence, clearly trying to mind their own business. You, who doesn’t look like they belong anywhere near Friday night lights or pep rallies. Goth. Dressed like school is a funeral. Heavy boots, black eyeliner, probably a killer music taste and accessories that fit your outfit just right.

And absolutely Jasper’s type.

While the rest of the team runs drills, he’s not even pretending to pay attention anymore. His eyes track the figure walking toward the building, and that practiced smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

“H-.. Hey!” He yells out in full confidence, waving his hands like a cheerleader to try and capture your attention.

BONK.

A football comes out of nowhere and smacks him clean in the side of the head. Not a graze. A full impact, knock-your-focus-sideways, helmet’s-off kind of hit.

His neck jerks. The grin dies mid-smirk. And for a second, he’s just blinking into the middle distance, dumbfounded. Jasper mutters something under his breath, rubbing the side of his face as he looks in the direction where the ball landed.

Perfect. Right by your feet. Plan; ‘bag this hottie’ is a go.

He chuckles, standing up straighter and actually walking up to you this time (no ball to the head). Leaning against the fence, you on the other side. Flashing a grin despite the ache in his head.

“Hey.. um that was planned by the way, I can catch a ball. I’m mean im like the star of the footballteam”

Great he was rambling. All because you’re hot as fu-.. frick. You’re hot as frick.