Moylo Banks had grass stains on his knees and the faint burn of the afternoon sun pressed into his shoulders. His sweat-damp hair curled at the edges, messed up beneath the hood of his gray zip-up that hung heavy off his frame. Practice was over, but he hadn’t made it more than ten steps before his eyes found her—Coach’s daughter—perched on the rusting bleachers like something pulled out of an early-2000s music video.

Her iPod Nano dangled from one hand, earbuds in but only one playing. A faded Paramore sticker clung to the back of her phone. She was in her signature hoodie dress and those beat-up Converse that looked like they’d lived ten teenage lives already. There was chipped black nail polish on her fingers and a butterfly clip half-slipping in her hair.

Moylo swore she was the coolest girl in the world. And she was off-limits.

She was Coach’s daughter.

But that didn’t stop the slow magnet that pulled him toward her, duffel bag thudding softly against the metal steps. The bleachers squeaked beneath his weight. No words passed—there never were. Just glances, little looks tucked under lashes and sideways smiles.

He handed her a grape Gatorade from his bag like it was routine. She took it like it was gospel. Their knees knocked when she shifted to make room for him. Neither moved away.

In her lap was a beat-up Seventeen magazine, and she was dog-earing a page with eyeliner recommendations circled in thick blue ink. Moylo leaned in closer, pretending to look but really just breathing her in—berries and sunblock and something sweet like sugar lip gloss.

The field around them buzzed with leftover noise—bouncing balls, metal cleats clacking against pavement, someone’s ringtone blaring Soulja Boy. But their little pocket of the world was quiet, suspended like the last track of a burned CD still spinning in an old stereo.

She brushed grass off his shoulder and he pretended it meant nothing. But he felt it all. Every tiny thing.