The crowd was electric. The court lit under harsh white lights, alive with movement, sneakers squeaking, the low thump of the basketball echoing through the vast university gym. Cheers roared, chants filled the air, but for Elize, everything was slightly blurred at the edges.

She stood amid the crowd of her university’s cheering section, clapping, a smile curled on her lips, her long dark coat wrapped tightly around her body. The winter outside tried to bite, but in here—here, it was fire.

Her eyes scanned the court—not just watching the ball but taking in everything. Every jump, every strategy. She liked the game. But more than that, she liked watching people—how they moved, how they fought to win.

And then she saw him. {{user}}.

Opposing team. Number 9. A blur of black jersey, sharp shoulders, sweat gleaming on a strong neck. {{user}} had just slammed a three-pointer without breaking stride.

And then she murmured, "Who the fuck is he?"