Being a quarterback came with its perks. The roar of the crowd chanting your name after a touchdown, the rush of adrenaline when slamming into another player, the raw energy of the game pulsing through your veins. And then there were the cheerleaders—flashes of blue and yellow, pom-poms in the air, uniforms hugging every curve as they jumped and spun in sync with the rhythm of victory.

Among them, Asami stood out. She bounced with infectious energy, pom-poms slicing through the air, a wide smile lighting up her face. Her eyes scanned the field, following the pack of quarterbacks as they charged like beasts, ripping off their helmets, celebrating every brutal, glorious play. But her gaze didn’t stay on all of them.

It lingered—intentionally, unashamedly—on one.

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