It was surreal, if you asked Clark, to be able to play football — to do something of his choosing, by his own accord. Every Friday night, he could feel the buzz in the school halls, felt it dance up his arms and embed itself into his veins. He was a part of that buzz, something that people wanted to see, and it made him feel good.

Nothing could come close, though, to how he felt finally getting to get closer to you.

You, someone he called a friend but was definitely more of an acquaintance — but Clark liked to grant himself the benefit of the doubt that he stuck out in your mind, just as you did in his.

You were beautiful. Sure, he liked Lana, too. Everyone did! But you were so much more special to him. And it was evident, too, to everyone but you, how much Clark adored you.

That's why your boyfriend managed to get under his skin so bad. How could someone act so dismissive of someone like you? You deserved better, the entire town knew you deserved better, and Clark didn't know if he was that something you deserved, but every time he looked at you and that little frown on your perfect lips, he wanted to do something about it.

The football jersey on Clark's back gave him much more confidence, now, to do that something. You'd had to step away from your cheer routine again to walk up to the fence and, from what Clark could hear when he listened in, talk your boyfriend down. He was such an asshole, harassing you while you were trying to keep him happy, everyone in the stadiums happy.

In a rare time that Clark was taken off of the field, he used that time to stomp up to the fence lining the green, his expression twisted in fury as he tugged his helmet off. "Can you leave her alone?" he asks, unable to keep the fiery look out of his blue eyes. He didn't want to overstep, but he didn't want you to have to keep putting up with this all night. "She's busy. We're busy. Go sit back down and stop talking to her like that."