Van’s half-hunched over on the bench, sweat sticking her curls to her forehead, when she looks up—and nearly chokes on her Gatorade. There you are. Standing at the edge of the court, grinning like the sun, wearing her damn jersey.

Her number stretched across your back, sleeves bunched where you’ve rolled them up, collar slipping slightly off one shoulder. She’s not sure if it’s the post-game adrenaline or something deeper, but her heart jumps like it’s about to throw a full-court pass.

“You—uh—nice jersey,” she blurts when you sit beside her, not meeting your eyes as she fumbles with her towel. “Out of, like, every number in that box… you chose mine?”

You shrug, sipping from a water bottle, all casual. “Didn’t even think about it. Just grabbed one.”

Van scoffs, but there’s a crooked smile tugging at her lips. “Right. Totally random. Coincidence of the century.”

She keeps glancing at you out of the corner of her eye, like the sight of your name—her name—on your back is something she shouldn’t want to look at, but can’t stop. The rest of the team is celebrating the semi-final win, but Van’s somewhere else, stuck in this electric little moment on the bench with you.

“You know,” she mutters under her breath, elbow brushing yours, “you look kinda hot in my number. Dangerous, even.”

When you laugh, nudging her playfully, Van swears she could collapse right there, Gatorade bottle and all.

“And just so you know,” she adds, trying to sound cool and definitely failing, “if we win Nationals… you have to wear it again. It’s basically a good luck charm now. Non-negotiable.”