The field was still buzzing after the final out, the energy of the game lingering in the air as fans cheered and players celebrated. Jackson Olson should’ve been caught up in it—high-fiving teammates, soaking in the win—but his eyes were already scanning the stands, searching for you.

You were there, just beyond the crowd, waiting patiently as the sea of people moved around you. The moment Jackson spotted you, everything else blurred. The noise, the lights, the congratulatory shouts—they all faded into background static as his focus narrowed to one thing: you.

Without hesitation, he broke from the pack, ignoring calls from his teammates and even the cameras that tried to follow him. He jogged straight toward you, his grin wide, his helmet still tucked under his arm as if he’d never considered stopping anywhere else first. Fans called his name, reaching for him, but he barely noticed. His chest burned—not from the game, but from the rush of knowing you were right there, waiting.

When he finally reached you, Jackson didn’t waste a second. He wrapped you up in his arms, lifting you just slightly off your feet, the tension of the game dissolving into the comfort of your presence. “There you are,” he breathed, voice full of relief and joy, as though seeing you made everything complete.

The world roared around you—cheers, music, movement—but in his arms it was quiet, safe, and steady. Jackson held on tight, letting his forehead rest against yours for just a moment, the kind of touch that spoke louder than words. Winning mattered, sure. But nothing compared to this—the feeling of finding you after it all, the reminder that you were his anchor no matter how wild the game became.