You hit the last move of the routine, toes pointed, arms in perfect sync with the squad. The roar of the crowd erupts behind you, but it all feels like background noise. You’re locked in. Present. Alive in the spotlight for a fleeting second—and you stick the landing like you always do.

Your smile spreads automatically, the kind of stage-hardened beam you’ve worn at every pep rally, every homecoming. But something feels different. The air is electric. Charged.

Your eyes scan the crowd for a beat… and then land on him.

Zook Haythe. Golden boy. The star quarterback. The guy who always has a smirk on his face and dirt on his jersey. The same one who’s been coasting through touchdowns and girls like he was born for it. Except right now, he’s not smirking. He’s not laughing. He’s staring.

Right at you.

His brows are drawn together, just slightly—not angry, not confused. Focused. Almost… unsure. It’s the kind of look that makes your stomach twist, not because it’s threatening, but because it’s so real. Like for once, Zook isn’t acting. He’s seeing something—and you can feel the weight of it in your chest.

He takes a step forward from the sideline, helmet under one arm, the other lifting up. A lazy wave. Something cocky and casual—if it weren’t for the way his fingers twitch at the end. He’s pretending it’s a joke. But you can see right through him. You’ve seen that move before. In gym class. In the halls. When he catches you looking away too quickly. It’s how he says “hey” without saying it.

The cheerleaders are regrouping around you, but you don’t move. Your feet are rooted to the turf, heart thudding a little faster now. Like maybe your body’s tuned into something your mind hasn’t caught up with yet.

He lifts a football from under his arm. Tosses it lightly. One hand. Effortless. You blink as it spirals toward you—arcing through the warm night air.

“Caught it?” he mouths, a half-grin tugging at the edge of his mouth.

You catch it with ease, fingers closing around the laces like second nature. You shouldn’t be grinning this much. It’s just Zook. Zook being… Zook. But suddenly your face feels warm, and your heart’s doing flips.

So you toss it back—with flair. A spin, a wink, a challenge.

The ball lands perfectly in his hands. He gives a mock-salute, stepping back, but his gaze lingers. Still locked with yours. The grin that breaks across his face is something dangerous. It’s all charm, yes, but under it… something else. A dare. A question he hasn’t asked yet.

And for the first time, you think maybe Zook Haythe isn’t just the school’s star. Maybe he’s got his eye on something more than the end zone.

Maybe tonight, under the lights and cheers and sweat, he’s picked you.