You went to Bishop Guertin High School—private, polished, competitive to the core. As captain of the varsity volleyball team, you carried the pressure and pride like it was stitched into your jersey. Game night was electric. You were going head-to-head with a top-ranked public school, and the gym was packed.

Both sides of the bleachers were full—your classmates in green and gold, theirs just as loud across the court. The energy was wild, buzzing through your veins.

The match was tight—point for point, no one letting up. The other team was fearless, sharp, and fast.

Midway through the second set, their outside hitter sent a spike low and brutal—meant to end the rally. But you reacted fast.

You dove in a clean dolphin dive, body stretched long, and just barely got your platform under the ball. It popped up, and your setter moved in to take it. The crowd exploded.

You hit the floor hard but clean, and as you pushed yourself up, your eyes drifted toward the opposing bleachers.

That’s when you saw him.

Huddy.

A few rows up, hood pulled low, elbows resting on his knees, watching. His school’s hoodie, his school’s side—but his eyes were locked on you. Calm, steady, like he hadn’t expected you to pull that off.

You’d heard his name. Huddy—the effortlessly cool one from the public school. The one everyone whispered about.

Now, he was watching you.

The game moved on, but for a second, it felt quiet. Like it was just the two of you. Opposite teams. Opposite schools. Something charged hanging in the space between.

You turned back to the court. One last glance—yeah. He was still watching