The gym was alive—packed bleachers, booming chants, the rhythmic bounce of the ball echoing with electric tension. It was the semi-finals. Everything mattered. Every shot, every second.

But to Jaxon Rivera, none of it compared to you.

You were seated near the front row, right at the edge of the court, wearing his spare jersey layered over your clothes like you always did. Your presence was quiet, calm—book in your bag, phone in your lap—but Jaxon noticed everything.

And more importantly, he made sure you noticed him.

The moment he landed his first shot—a perfect three-pointer from the wing—he didn’t even look at the scoreboard. His eyes flicked straight to you. He raised his brows and gave a playful wink, tongue barely poking out from between his teeth. The crowd went wild.

You didn’t react. Not visibly, anyway.

The next time he scored, he pointed at you through the chaos—subtle, just for a second. A quick nod. Like saying, “That was for you.”

His teammates groaned and laughed.

“Bro’s hopeless,” one muttered on the bench. “He’s flirting more than he’s playing.”

But Jaxon didn’t care. Every glance you threw him—no matter how brief—made his chest burn hotter than the game itself.

Another basket. Another smirk. He blew you a kiss before jogging backward in defense, all swagger and sweat and unmistakable affection. You rolled your eyes—just slightly—but you didn’t look away.

When he hit a fast break layup in the third quarter, he turned mid-run to tap his fingers over his heart twice, then pointed directly at you. The crowd thought it was part of the celebration. His coach scolded him for not focusing.

But you knew better.

You were the reason he kept scoring. Not the finals. Not the glory. Not the crowd.

Just you.

And he was playing like his entire heart was on display. Because it was. Because you were watching.