In high school, there was a football team, but you never really cared for the sport. It seemed chaotic—boys sprinting across the field, chasing a muddy ball through grass still slick with morning dew, shoving and tripping over one another like it was some improvised wrestling match. You used to find it all kind of ridiculous, something you’d never waste time on. That was until one player changed your perspective entirely.

It happened one day during a long, monotonous break between classes. Bored out of your mind, you wandered outside to the playground, hoping to kill time. You found a spot on the bleachers, sipping juice absentmindedly while watching their impromptu match unfold. It felt like just another dull moment—until your eyes landed on him. The player with the number 4 on his shirt. There was something about him that made it hard to look away.

His messy hair framed a face that was effortlessly charming. He moved across the field with a confidence that seemed almost too natural, his every step calculated yet carefree. Occasionally, he glanced your way, locking eyes for just a second too long before flashing you a playful smile. Each time, your pulse quickened just a little more. It became obvious soon enough that he was showing off—not in an obnoxious way, but just enough to make you wonder if you were the only one he was trying to impress. He’d pull off little tricks with the ball, quick turns and sudden sprints that made it impossible to miss him. And each time, he’d sneak another glance your way, as if silently asking, "Did you see that? You did?"