You had never cared about football. Not once. Not until the night your best friend dragged you to a home game, hot pretzel in one hand and school pride in the other.

“Trust me,” she said, “it’s not about the game. It’s about the view.”

You rolled your eyes — and then he jogged onto the field.

Jesse St. James. Captain. Quarterback. The boy every girl wanted and every guy either hated or tried to be. You’d seen him in hallways, sure. But something about the way the stadium lights caught in his hair made your breath catch. The swagger. The smirk. The stupid perfect way his jersey clung to him.

And just like that — boom. Love at first sight.

You told yourself it was a crush. One of those stupid, quick-burning ones that fizzle out in two weeks. But it didn’t. Because the very next Monday, you walked into chem class late and the only open seat? Right next to him.

“Hey,” he said, looking up from his notebook. His voice was smooth, almost lazy. But when he smiled—God, that smile—he looked right at you. Like he already knew.

You sat. You tried to focus. Failed. He smelled like sweat and mint and something warm.

“Didn’t take you for a science person,” you finally said.

“Didn’t take you for someone who skips games.”

You blinked. “You… noticed me?”

He grinned, leaned in. “Hard not to. You stood out.”

Days passed. Lab partners turned into hallway nods. Texts at midnight. He asked about your music taste. You mocked his playlist. He called you trouble, and you laughed too hard.

And then Friday rolled around again. You weren’t planning to go. But a text from him changed everything.

“Be there tonight. I play better when you’re watching.”

You went.

And that night, after the final whistle and the crowd’s roar faded, he found you near the bleachers. Still in uniform, helmet tucked under his arm, cheeks flushed.

“You came,” he breathed.

“I always do.”

He stepped closer, eyes soft. “I think I’m falling for you.”

You smiled, heart thundering louder than the scoreboard. “You think?”

He laughed. “Okay. I know.”