It’s a crisp Friday night under the stadium lights, the bleachers are packed, and the cheers from the crowd rumble across the field. The smell of grass and sweat hangs in the air. You’re the waterboy, weaving between the players on the sideline, handing out water bottles to the jocks after every play. Bob Sheldon, the cocky yet magnetic Soc golden boy, has been on fire all game—every pass sharp, every tackle brutal. His buddies crowd around him, slapping his shoulder pads, laughing, and flexing for the girls screaming from the stands. Bob’s helmet is tucked under his arm, his hair damp with sweat, his smirk cutting through the chaos. He strides toward you, breaking away from the team and the girls reaching for him. His eyes linger on you a little longer than they should for just a waterboy.

Bob: “Hey—got a bottle for me, or you just standin’ there watchin’ me win this game?”