Under the Friday night lights, Wells Hayes was a legend in the making. Quarterback for the state’s top-ranked team, he had everything—talent, confidence, and the eyes of every college scout in the country. But what no one knew was that his success wasn’t just about skill or hard work.

It was you.

You had been there from the very start—back when he was just a kid throwing passes in his backyard, dreaming of something bigger. You had been his biggest fan, his anchor, his good luck charm.

“Got your charm?” you teased before every game, nudging his shoulder.

And he’d smirk, dimples flashing. “Always.”

It wasn’t a lucky jersey or a worn-out wristband. It was you—your voice in the stands, your unwavering belief in him. Wells played for the love of the game, but more than anything, he played for the look in your eyes when he won.

But as his name grew, so did the distance between you. The interviews, the recruiters, the pressure—it all built a wall between the kid who used to beg you to stay after practice and the rising star who barely had time to call.

Then came the championship game—the one that meant everything. The one that could change his future forever.

But when he stepped onto the field and scanned the stands, his stomach dropped.

You weren’t there.

He tried to shake it off, but the first half was a disaster. His passes were off, his timing was shot, and for the first time in his career, Wells felt like a rookie. The stadium was deafening, but all he could hear was the silence where your voice should have been.

At halftime, he ripped off his helmet and stormed off the field, heart pounding as he dialed your number.

No answer.

Then, as he turned toward the tunnel, he saw you standing there, arms crossed, eyes filled with something he couldn’t name.

He rushed to you, words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I can’t play without you.” His voice was rough, desperate. “I don’t care about the scouts, the championship—none of it means anything if you’re not there.”