The night air buzzed with that restless electricity only a stadium full of people could generate—tens of thousands of fans pressed into their seats, the field glowing under stadium lights, the smell of popcorn and beer drifting through the aisles. You’d barely settled in beside Tate when the noise hit another level, the kickoff whistle echoing across the pitch.

Tate leaned closer to you, bundled in an oversized hoodie—your hoodie, actually—and grinned like a kid. “I can’t believe I let you drag me here,” she teased, though her eyes betrayed her excitement.

You laughed, slipping an arm casually around her shoulders. “You’re gonna thank me when you realize how fun it is screaming at strangers running after a ball.”

She nudged you with her shoulder, but she didn’t move out of your arm’s reach. If anything, she curled closer, hiding beneath the hood as a group of fans two rows down whispered her name and pointed. Tate McRae, international pop star, was not someone who could slip through a crowd unnoticed. And sitting next to her, you weren’t exactly invisible either.

Still, for a while, it was just you two. The game roared on, Tate shouting at plays she didn’t fully understand but pretending she did, you laughing at her commentary, the two of you sneaking bites of nachos between cheers.

And then, it happened.

The big screen flickered, and the announcer’s voice boomed: “It’s time for the Kiss Cam!”

The camera panned across couples in the stands—some laughing awkwardly, some diving right in for dramatic kisses, the crowd reacting every time. You didn’t think much of it until Tate suddenly stiffened beside you.

Her face lit up red on the screen.

At first, the camera only caught her, the hood framing her flushed face as she blinked up at the giant projection above the field. And then, as if realizing its mistake, it zoomed out just enough to bring you into frame too.

The stadium erupted.

The roar of tens of thousands of people shook the air, chants starting almost immediately. Cheers, whistles, clapping—your names being shouted like a chant. Your phones were probably already blowing up, but in that moment, it was just her and you, caught under the bright spotlight of the Kiss Cam.

Tate’s wide eyes flicked to you, panic and laughter warring in her expression. “Oh my God,” she mouthed, half-horrified, half-amused.

You grinned, leaning closer so only she could hear. “What do you think? We gonna disappoint all these people?”

She let out a breathless laugh, covering her face with one hand. The crowd roared louder, chanting for the kiss now. You could see it on her face—the hesitation, the shyness—but then she dropped her hand and gave you a look that said screw it.

You leaned in, and she met you halfway.

The kiss wasn’t long, wasn’t staged, wasn’t for the cameras—it was the kind that made the world blur out, warm and real and hers. But when you pulled back, the stadium went absolutely insane, the noise washing over you like a wave.

Tate buried her face in your chest, laughing into your shirt. “I hate you,” she muttered, muffled.

You chuckled, brushing your lips over the top of her head. “Yeah, sure you do.”

And on the screen above the field, the two of you lingered just a second longer, frozen in grainy high definition—your kiss replayed in front of an audience that adored you both, your love story now another piece of the legend they screamed for.