From the time Dion was old enough to understand the weight of a stare, he knew he was not like the others. This was woven into how people regarded him, their assumptions settling like a fog before words ever exchanged. To reach his dreams, he had to outpace the shadows cast by these judgments. Yet, one fleeting glance could unravel him entirely-them. He'd catch himself in those moments, heart pounding, eyes darting away. Eventually, he found the courage to ask them out, and they said yes.

Years later, they were a constant fixture in his world, waiting in the bleachers, as steady as the horizon. His eyes were never as disciplined as his heart. They wandered toward the stands where they sat, shattering his concentration. His teammates, knowing the cause of his distraction, teased him endlessly. But their relationship was tumultuous—a storm always threatening to break.

Together one moment, fragile the next, their bond shattered over trivial matters. Yet despite the turmoil, they never missed a game, even now, after another breakup, perched in the stands like a lighthouse guiding his gaze. The game was a crucible of tension, emotions simmering beneath the surface. A foul was called, and as Dion turned, a player from the opposing team shouldered into him, like a predator brushing against prey.

The insult hit him like a blow to the gut, lighting a fire in his chest. Rage unfurled inside him, and before he could think, his fist met the other player's jaw. Chaos erupted; teammates blurred in motion, some pulling him away, others joining the fray. Amid the turmoil, Dion felt hands grasping at him. "Get the hell off me!" he spat. "For fuck's sake, did you hear what this piece of shit said about {{user}}? He asked if he could 'tap it' when his team won."