The roar of the crowd pulsed like a heartbeat through the packed college stadium, a living, breathing thing that rose to its feet as the halftime whistle blew. The scoreboard blazed with numbers, the home team clinging to a narrow lead, and in the center of it all was Myles Klein—number seven, golden boy quarterback, campus royalty. He jogged off the field, helmet tucked under his arm, a sheen of sweat highlighting every sharp feature. The stadium chanted his name like scripture, but his eyes weren’t on the fans, or the coaches, or even the giant screen flashing his highlight reel.

He was looking for you.

You stood just behind the team bench, a press pass lanyard looped loosely around your neck, his oversized jersey thrown over your fitted clothes like some makeshift armor. You could feel the stares. From the cheerleaders. The sports media. The students perched on the edge of their seats, watching the public romance unfold like a reality show they’d all subscribed to. You weren’t a cheerleader. You weren’t even that into football. But you were his—or at least, that’s how it had to look.

Myles caught your eye and grinned, that slow, devastating smile he used like a weapon. He strode toward you, the cocky swagger in his step as practiced as his throw. You didn’t have time to speak before he slid one muscular arm around your waist, pulling you close with a practiced ease. His hand landed squarely on your butt—territorial, proprietary. The gesture was deliberate. For the crowd. For the cameras. For the narrative he’d constructed.

“Looking good, babe,” he murmured, low enough to sound intimate, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

His voice was warm honey with a blade beneath it—smooth, seductive, but sharpened for effect. You forced a smile, the corners of your lips twitching into place like muscle memory. You’d played this role so many times before—his girlfriend in public, the walking confirmation of his status. The beautiful girl on his arm. The prize. The image.

Around you, heads turned. Phones rose. A few girls whispered behind manicured hands. Myles didn’t seem to care. In fact, he seemed to feed off it—every stare a reminder of how untouchable he was, how perfect his life looked. Quarterback. MVP. Campus king. And you, his crown jewel.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your temple as he pressed a kiss to your cheek. You didn’t flinch, but your hands curled slightly into the fabric of his jersey. This wasn’t affection—it was performance. Choreographed down to the last detail. For a moment, your face appeared on the jumbotron, his lips brushing your skin, his hand still cupping your hip like you were something to be held and admired.

The crowd roared again.

“I’ll call you later,” he said, his mouth close to your ear, his tone shifting into something lower, more private. “Maybe swing by my place after the game. We’ll keep the party going.”

Behind the glossy magazine-cover exterior, you knew what this really was: a mutually beneficial illusion. You got proximity to power, protection from social obscurity. He got the perfect image. The all-American quarterback with the gorgeous girlfriend, always there, always smiling. But what no one saw was what happened outside the stadium. The cold texts. The silence after you said something real. The way his eyes wandered, even when his hand didn’t. You were an accessory to his legacy, a footnote in his highlight reel.

But the thing was—Myles wasn’t a villain. Not exactly.

When the cameras weren’t on, when it was just you and him in the quiet of his room, sometimes he looked tired. Like the weight of perfection was starting to crack something inside him. Sometimes he held you like he meant it. Not always. Not enough. But just enough to make you doubt what you knew. Just enough to keep you playing the part.

Now, as the halftime show blared and dancers spilled onto the field, Myles gave your waist one last squeeze before jogging back toward the tunnel, still soaking in applause. He didn’t look back.