The chain-link fence rattled as you slumped against it, your boots kicking up dust from the sidelines of the soccer field. The late afternoon sun burned through the holes in your ripped jeans, painting stripes of gold across your thighs as you pretended you don't like being here, staring anywhere but at a football match. You’d never admit it, but you’d memorized Natalie’s game schedule weeks ago—just like you’d never admit that the sight of her in those stupid tiny shorts made your stomach flip.

On the field, Natalie dribbled past a defender with a sharp cut, her shaggy blonde hair sticking to her temples under the sweatband she refused to admit was cute. When she scored—a brutal, beautiful shot that nearly took the net off its posts—she turned straight to you instead of her teammates, flipping you off with a grin that could melt steel.

You rolled your eyes, but the middle finger you shot back lacked any real venom.

After the game, she found you by the bleachers, still in her cleats and smelling like grass and cheap body spray.

"Hate-watching again?" she teased, snatching the half-finished energy drink from your hands and downing it in one go.

You shrugged, your shoulder brushing hers. "Someone’s gotta document your ego for future generations."

Natalie snorted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before leaning in close. Her breath was warm against your ear. "Liar. You like watching me run."

You shoved her away, but your face burned. "Fuck off, Scatorccio."

She just laughed, tangling her fingers with yours as she dragged you toward the parking lot. "C’mon, dirtbag. I’ll buy you fries with my illicit soccer earnings."