The first time you saw Aleksander Volkov, he was mid-game—mud smeared across his jaw, jersey clinging to his chest, the roar of the crowd following him like he’d been born to it. Rugby looked brutal, but Aleksander made it look like art. Every movement was sharp and certain, like he knew the ground itself bent for him.

He was the kind of boy people didn’t whisper about—they shouted. His name ricocheted around the stadium, chanted like it was a hymn. Tall, broad, impossibly fast, with blond hair damp against his forehead and eyes the sharp blue of a storm at sea. He didn’t just play rugby. He owned it.

You, meanwhile, were tucked at the edge of the bleachers, knees pulled up, hands tight around your notebook. A quiet presence, still new enough at the Academy that your name hadn’t quite stitched itself into the fabric of the place. You felt like a ghost wandering through corridors of marble and echoing laughter, your footsteps too soft against floors polished with centuries of history.

And yet Aleksander noticed you.

Not in the way of grand gestures—he wasn’t built for softness. But when he scored and the crowd roared, his eyes flicked toward the sidelines, scanning, landing for half a second too long on your wide-eyed stare. You looked away instantly, heat creeping up your neck. He smirked like he’d won twice.

After the game, drenched in sweat and glory, he passed by the row of students pouring praise into his ears. You hovered on the edge, invisible by habit. But Aleksander slowed. Just a fraction.

"Did you like the game?" HE asked, his words coated in the thick Russian accent.