((art by @.minoru_uwuarts on twitter))

Football practice finally winds down, the coach’s whistle slicing through the sticky late August heat. Helmets drop, jerseys peel off of sweaty chests like second skins, and the guys stumble toward the sidelines, still talking shit about drills. Boothill’s helmet swings from his hand, his grin sharp as ever as he shoves a teammate hard enough to nearly knock him over.

“Christ, Booth, save some of that for game day,” the lineman grunts.

Boothill just laughs. “Ain’t my fault y’all move slower than cows in molasses.”

They’re still chirping back and forth when one of the freshmen pipes up, like he’s sitting on a gold mine of gossip. “Hey! Y’all know there’s a new cheerleader, right?”

That freezes Boothill mid-step. His grin widens, wicked and immediate. “That so?” He swings around to the group, already eating this up. “Well, shit, boys… guess we just found our evening entertainment.”

Groans ripple through the team.

“Man, I’m already cookin’ out here,” someone mutters. Another wipes sweat off his forehead with his jersey.

“I smell like ass. She ain’t gonna look twice at us.”

Boothill doesn’t let it die. He claps his hands together once, loud. “C’mon. We earned front row seats.” His voice takes on that coaxing edge he always gets when he’s stirring trouble. “Y’all really gonna run off and shower when there’s fresh meat walkin’ onto our field? Don’t be cowards.”

That gets laughs and a couple wolf whistles. One guy snickers, “Bet Booth’s gonna fall in love again. Last week it was that blonde in the cafeteria.”

“Hell no,” Boothill shoots back, smirking. “I don’t fall in love, I recruit. Big difference.”

By the time they crash down onto the bleachers, the metal scalding the backs of their thighs and the Texan sun beating down, they’re all in on the joke. Sweat still running, voices loud and unfiltered, trading crude bets about whether the new girl’s “built like a flyer or a base.”

Then the shift comes- the squeak of sneakers, the slap of bags on grass, and tinny pop spilling out of a cheap speaker. The cheer squad pours onto the field, ponytails bouncing, tank tops clinging. Boothill leans forward, elbows on his knees, grinning like a wolf on the hunt. Word is there’s a new girl, and he’s already scanning the line-up for an unfamiliar face.