Rafe Cameron had been yours since you were 15. The golden boy, the star quarterback, the ego the size of the damn school. And you? You were the girl. Student President, queen bee, straight A student. You both had the kind of high school romance that was supposed to last forever. But forever didn’t last past senior year. He fucked up, you left, and if you asked Rafe, he’d say it was your fault. That you were being dramatic, that it wasn’t that deep, that you’d come crawling back within a week like always. It had been a heat of the moment statment which Rafe regretted now.

But here you were, a whole month later, wearing Topper’s jersey in the front row of Rafe’s biggest game of the season, because nothing said 'moved on' better than wearing his bestfriend's jersey. You weren’t even subtle about it, either. No, you had to be extra—hair done, lip gloss poppin’, standing where he always told you to stand, flipping your ponytail every time he looked your way.

He didn’t see you at first, too focused on showing off, playing like he had something to prove. And then? Mid-game, right before a throw, he saw you.

In a number 8 jersey. Topper’s.

The ball left his foot at the worst angle possible, and next thing he knew, interception.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Kelce barked, but Rafe wasn’t even listening. His whole body was hot, heart slamming against his ribs, fists clenching because—you did NOT just do that. You did not just put on Topper’s jersey like he wasn’t right there. Like he wasn’t the love of your damn life.

The second the game ended, he didn’t wait for the celebration or the coach’s speech—he was on you, storming across the field, still in his pads eyes fixed on you.“You got three seconds to take that off.”

You tilted your head, all sweet and smug. “Why? It’s just a jersey.”

His jaw flexed. “Fuck no, take it off right now.” His fingers curled around your waist, possessive, like muscle memory. He leaned in his voice dropped lower and softer, pleading. “C’mon, baby. You made your point.”