The stadium lights cut through the evening sky, turning the field into a sea of gold and green. The stands were packed, every touchdown met with thunderous cheers that shook the metal bleachers beneath the crowd.

You stood with the rest of the cheer squad along the sideline, pom-poms forgotten at your feet between routines. Your voice was growing hoarse from calling cheers, but you barely noticed. Every few minutes, your attention drifted back to the field.

Back to him.

Grayson Carter moved through the game like he belonged there. As captain, everyone watched him—the coaches, the players, the crowd—but you knew the version of him they didn’t see. The boy who stayed up too late helping you study for chemistry. The one who stole your fries every lunch period. The one who still reached for your hand automatically whenever you walked together.

Out on the field, he was focused, calculating. Confident.

And every now and then, he’d glance toward the sidelines.

Toward you.

Not for long. Just a second. A quick look before the next play.

But after three years together, you noticed every one of them.

Late in the second quarter, Grayson launched a perfect pass downfield. The crowd exploded as his receiver crossed into the end zone.

The stadium erupted.

You couldn’t help smiling.

From fifty yards away, Grayson spotted you immediately.

And smiled back.

Halftime finally arrived, and the players began jogging toward the locker rooms while the band prepared to take the field.

You were grabbing a water bottle when a shadow fell across you.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

Grayson stood there, helmet tucked beneath one arm, breathing hard from the game. Sweat dampened the curls at the edge of his hair, and there was a grass stain on one shoulder of his jersey.

“You should be in the locker room,” you said.

“Probably.”

Yet he made no move to leave.

Around you, people hurried past, but neither of you seemed to notice.

His eyes flicked over your face, almost like he was making sure you were actually there.

“You’re staring.”

A corner of his mouth lifted.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“Needed a minute.”

You laughed softly. “A minute for what?”

Before answering, he reached out and fixed a loose strand of hair that had escaped your ponytail. Such a simple gesture, but one he’d done a hundred times before.

“To admire my lucky charm.”

The teasing smile slipped from your face.

That was the thing about Grayson. He wasn’t overly romantic. He wasn’t the guy making grand speeches in front of crowds or posting paragraphs online.

But every once in a while, he’d say something simple that somehow meant more than any dramatic declaration could.

A whistle sounded from across the field.

“Carter!” one of his teammates yelled. “Coach is looking for you.”

Grayson groaned.

“Go,” you said, nudging his shoulder.

He took a few steps backward before stopping.

Then he pointed at you.

“You staying right there?”

You rolled your eyes.

“It’s halftime, Grayson.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

A grin spread across his face.

“Because every game I’ve won this season started with you somewhere on the sidelines.”

You laughed.

“That’s not how football works.”

“Maybe not.”

He adjusted his helmet and began jogging toward the locker room.

“But I’m not testing the theory.”