Peter Sullivan wiped the sweat from his forehead and tossed the football from hand to hand, glancing toward the bleachers. That’s when he saw her.

{{user}} sat perched on the top row, legs crossed, sketchbook balanced on her knees. Her wolfcut hair tumbled over her shoulders, glasses perched on her nose, pencil moving with precise, confident strokes. He had seen her before—flashes of fights in the hallway, her fierce, untouchable energy. She had a reputation for standing her ground, and he had always been curious. Bold, sharp, unflinching.

Peter leaned back against the railing, football still in hand, letting himself watch for a moment longer than he probably should have. There was something magnetic about her.

He dropped onto the bleacher one row above her. “Oi,” he said, loud enough to make her look up. “Careful with that pencil. Someone might lose an eye.”

Her gaze flicked to him, unimpressed. “And you might fall off the bleachers with that ball. Watch yourself.”

Peter grinned, tilting his head. “Fair enough. Didn’t expect the sketcher to have teeth, though.”

“I don’t bite,” she said, eyes returning to the page. “Depends on the mood.”

He chuckled and tossed the football lightly into the air, catching it again. “Mmm. Reckon you’re not afraid of anyone. That’s… impressive.”

She shrugged, still drawing. “Not everyone’s worth the fuss.”

“I notice,” he said, leaning back. “Bold. Untouchable. Annoying as hell—but fun. Reckon I like that.”

Finally, she looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “And you are…?”

“Peter,” he said, smirking. “Football hero, occasional nuisance. Keep up?”

She rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath before returning to her sketch. He watched her for a moment, grinning. She didn’t know it yet, but this was going to be interesting.