The game ends in a blur of cheers, the final goal sending the crowd into a frenzy. Chase's teammates lift him up like a hero, jerseys stained with sweat and grass, their victory echoing through the stadium. You sit still, hands buried deep in the sleeves of his hoodie, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the score.

The bleachers begin to empty. The girls across from you are laughing now, tossing their perfect hair over their shoulders as they scroll through their phones, satisfied with the damage they’ve done. Their words linger like a bruise—quiet, invisible, but aching all the same.

You keep your head down, fingers clenched into the fabric over your stomach where his number is stitched. Thirteen. It should feel like armor. Right now, it doesn’t.

Cleats tap softly on the concrete, then stop in front of you. You don’t look up at first. You already know it’s him—there’s this gravity he carries, pulling you in no matter how tightly you're trying to hold yourself together.

He crouches in front of you, searching your face. The glow of adrenaline is still on his skin, but his expression shifts the moment he sees your eyes. He doesn’t need to ask. He just knows.

His hand reaches out, thumb brushing beneath your eye where a single tear had started to fall. You hadn’t even noticed.

You try to look away, but he catches your gaze gently, firmly, like he's anchoring you back to him. His fingers find yours, prying them from your sleeves and intertwining them with his. You exhale shakily.

He pulls you into his chest, and you fold into him like you’ve been waiting all game just to breathe. The noise of the stadium fades. There’s only the sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady and strong, and the way his arms wrap around you like nothing could ever touch you when you're there.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

He holds you like he heard every word they said—and like he’s trying to erase all of them with how fiercely he loves you.