The first week Mason Wilder transferred in, the gym changed.

It wasn’t just that he was tall — though he was, long-limbed and broad-shouldered like he’d been built specifically for a varsity jersey. It wasn’t just the way his dirty-blonde hair fell in layered waves around his face, brushing his glasses when he ran. It was the way he moved — calm, controlled, like the court belonged to him before anyone handed him the ball.

By the second game of the season, the student section was chanting his name. By the third, he had a fan page.

Mason Wilder. Number 10. Wolves.

He didn’t trash talk. Didn’t flex after shots. He just played — sharp passes, impossible layups, buzzer-beaters that made the gym erupt. Teachers mentioned him. Freshmen stared at him. Upperclassmen tried to sit near him at lunch. And every single week, someone asked the same question:

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

It started as teasing from teammates. Then it turned into hallway whispers. Then full-on interrogation.

“You’d date a cheerleader, right?” “It’s definitely one of the volleyball girls.” “No way he’s single.” “Bro, you’re lying. There’s no way.”

He just shrugged, adjusting his glasses, that quiet half-smile never giving anything away.

Even at home, it was worse. His mom would lean over the kitchen counter. “So… anyone special?” His aunt would nudge him at family dinners. “You’re too handsome to be single.” His little cousin once shouted, “Is it a TikTok girl?!”

Mason would just shake his head and say, “I’m focused on basketball.”

Which wasn’t exactly a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

Because while the school imagined him with a glitter-lined cheer captain or a varsity track star, the person who made his chest tighten before games stood under stage lights instead of stadium lights.

You.

Theater.

You sang like you were telling secrets to the stars. You danced like the music lived inside your bones. When you performed, the whole auditorium felt different — warmer, fuller. Mason had gone to your first show out of curiosity. He’d never understood theater before. It wasn’t loud like a game. It wasn’t competitive. No scoreboard. No buzzer.

But when you stepped forward for your solo, he forgot to breathe.

After that, he never missed one. Opening night. Closing night. Matinees.

And every single time, when the curtains fell and the cast took their bows, there he was in the aisle — six-foot-something in a Wolves hoodie, holding a bouquet just a little too big, waiting.

The first time he did it, people stared. The second time, they whispered. By the third show, it was a tradition.

“Oh my God, is that Mason Wilder?” “He’s here again.” “Who’s he here for?” “No way it’s someone in theater.”

And when he finally stopped dodging the questions — when someone caught him smiling too openly as you ran into his arms backstage — the school exploded.

“WAIT. Which one?” “Who is it?!” “There are like forty people in that cast!” “Is it the lead?” “Is it the dancer in the red dress?”

But the real shock wasn’t just that Mason Wilder, Wolves’ golden boy, was dating a theater kid.

It was how he looked at you.

Not like you were a secret. Not like you were unexpected.

But like you were the only spotlight that ever mattered.