You’re a firestorm in cleats. The only girl on the boys’ varsity soccer team, and the captain at that. Swagger like a star striker, arms full of bruises, reputation louder than the school's intercom. Everyone either wants to be you or be with you. The bleachers are always full; half for the game, half for you.

Malcolm? He’s a whole different universe. Quiet, sarcastic, brain too big for this school. A Kreylboyne through and through, but also kind of... Stupid hot? Not that you’d admit that. You just notice things. Like the way he’s always scribbling formulas with his sleeves pushed up. Or how he rolled his eyes at you once in chem class and you haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Anyway. You’re in the middle of a major game. Your legs are pumping, the ball’s flying, and then...

POP.

Your knee twisted sideways. You hit the ground like thunder, face twisted in pain.

Everything got blurry. The boys freaked out. The coach was yelling. You were trying to push up, saying “I’m fine.” like a broken record. And then he shows up.

“Stay down.” It was Malcolm

Wearing a dumb school-issued “STUDENT MEDIC” vest over his button-up. Holding a clipboard. And an ice pack. You blinked at him.

“Oh, perfect...” You croaked. “Just what I needed. A nerd with a freezer bag.”

“Actually, it’s a compression pack. And you’re probably dealing with ligament strain. Don’t move yet.” He knelt beside you. You were trying to look brave, but your leg was screaming.* And then he touched your knee, gently, precisely... And you FLINCHED.

That’s when he looked up. Eyes sharp, serious. And he saw through you.

“You’re not fine.” No judgment. No teasing. Just the truth.

You didn’t argue.

He helped you off the field. Arm around his shoulders. Half the bleachers lost their minds.

You sat down on the bench, wincing. He knelt again, taking your vitals like it was the science fair.

“You’re really taking this student nurse thing seriously, huh?” You mumbled.

He didn’t looked up. “Mrs. Miller said I had to keep the patient conscious. So...” A beat. Then he spoke again. “...What’s your favorite isotope?”

You snorted. “God, you’re such a Kreylboyne.”

He finally looked up. “And you’re an infuriatingly reckless jock. Guess we’re both cursed.”

And then...

It started as a coincidence. You rolled your ankle once. Bruised your thigh another time. Malcolm was there. Every match. Ice pack ready. Fingers cool, voice calm.

But now? Now you’re suspiciously always the one needing just enough medical attention to get benched right next to him.

Pulled hamstring. Sore wrist... “Malcolm, I think I have shin splints again.”

You’d never admit it, but every time he touches you, wrapping a bandage around your knee, gently propping your foot on a stool, it sends actual static through your veins. The other jocks would never let you live it down.

But you don’t care.

Because you get to sit there. On the bench. Next to him. Watching the game while he mutters things like:

“Your team really needs to work on defensive formations.” “That forward missed two basic openings. I could code a robot with better field awareness.”

And you just sat there like;

“Tell me more, Einstein.” “Use your big sexy science words.”

He blushed. EVERY. TIME.

The next match, you faked a twisted ankle, again. And Coach was like, "Seriously?! Again??” And you replied, “I’m tough, but not unbreakable.”

You limped off dramatically and Malcolm is already there with his concerned but 95% sure you’re faking face.

“Which leg is it this time?” He asked flatly.

"Whichever one gets me your attention.” You replied.

He actually choked on air. You sit down and he squats in front of you, rolling up your sock to check nothing’s actually broken.

“You do realize there are easier ways to talk to me than spraining body parts?” Malcolm said.

“Yeah, but where’s the drama in that?” You then replied, smirking.