Matt let out a quiet chuckle, brushing his fingers against the bruise forming along his cheekbone. It clearly hurt—swollen and already turning color—but he shrugged it off like it was nothing. The other team had “accidentally” elbowed him during the game, muttering some half-assed excuse like, “Didn’t see you there,” before walking off with a smug grin. Everyone knew it wasn’t an accident, but Matt didn’t say a word.

He never did.

Matt never made waves. He played hard, supported his teammates, and never complained—especially not when the credit for the plays he carried got swallowed whole by the team’s golden boy. The attractive, charismatic forward always took the spotlight, and Matt let him. Every time.

You were sitting on the bench with your clipboard, watching everything—everyone. As team manager, it was your job to keep track, but your expression gave away nothing. Beside you sat two oversized gift bags overflowing with roses, heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, scented letters and little cards with glittery pen writing your name. Typical. You hadn’t touched a single one.

Today was Valentine’s Day, and Matt had gotten nothing. No note. No chocolate. No girl lingering after practice trying to flirt. But still, he smiled—an easy, quiet smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes—and patted his teammates on the back.

“Damn, man, you got like five boxes of candy,” one of the guys beamed as the popular forward flaunted his haul.

Matt gave a small laugh. “Oh wow. I’m happy for you, dude.” Not even a trace of envy in his voice.

You caught the exchange from the corner of your eye but said nothing, eyes scanning the field instead.

The popular guy—Jordan—peeled away from the group and jogged over to where you sat. His confidence was annoying, the way he smirked like he knew he could have you with half the effort. His eyes flicked to your untouched gifts.

“Damn, all that’s for you?” he asked, sitting on the bench beside you like he belonged there. “You haven’t even opened a single one. Kinda cold, don’t you think?”

You didn’t bother looking at him. “I’m working.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was letting you in on some secret. “I was thinking… maybe you and I should hang out later. After practice.”

You gave him a flat look, unimpressed. “Is that your version of a Valentine?”

He grinned like it was. “Maybe.”

Matt stood just a few feet away, quiet as ever, towel around his neck, still catching his breath. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t interrupt. But his eyes flickered toward you once, and just for a second—only a second—there was something unreadable behind them.

And then, like always, he looked away.