The gym vibrates with sound — sneakers screeching, whistles blaring, the crowd a sea of movement and noise. The first half ends with a shrill buzzer, and the scoreboard flashes a rare sight: Damon’s team down by six.

He’s pacing near the bench, jaw locked, fury simmering just beneath the surface. You can feel it from across the court, even from where you stand with the cheer squad, pom-poms clutched tight. It’s in the way his eyes find you — every damn time.

Because you’re wearing someone else’s number.

Mason’s number.

It was supposed to be a joke. The squad thought it’d be funny to “switch things up,” and when the other girls tossed numbers around, Mason’s landed in your hands. You laughed it off. Didn’t think Damon would even notice from the court.

But Damon notices everything.

And right now, that number might as well be a target on your face.

The team huddles at the sideline, but he barely listens to the coach. His focus is razor sharp, locked on Mason — and then, on you. The veins in his forearm tighten where he grips a towel. Every muscle in his jaw tics with quiet rage.

“Run it again,” Mason says, panting. “I’ll—”

“Don’t,” Damon clips out. His tone cuts through the noise like a blade. “You’ve done enough.”

The coach tries to redirect him, but Damon’s already done. His gaze flicks toward the cheer line forming near center court — toward you.

And that’s all it takes.

Before the squad can start the halftime routine, a hand catches your wrist. Hard.

“Damon,” you hiss, startled. He doesn’t stop walking until you’re half pulled behind the bleachers, shielded from the crowd’s eyes.

He towers over you, chest still heaving from the game, skin damp with sweat. His gray eyes are storm-dark — furious, beautiful, unrelenting.

“Whose number are you wearing?” His voice is low, controlled, but it thrums with danger.

“It was just a joke,” you whisper. “The girls—”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?”

You swallow hard. His hand is still on your wrist, thumb brushing your pulse. It’s not painful — not quite — but there’s no mistaking the possessiveness in it.

“It’s halftime,” you murmur, trying to sound calm. “I need to go—”

He steps closer, the heat of him pressing into you, his voice rough at your ear. “You’ll go when I say you can.”

“Damon—”

He exhales slowly, forehead almost touching yours. “You know I don’t care about this game,” he mutters. “I don’t care about the points, or the scoreboard. But seeing you out there with another man’s number?” His hand slides down your arm, fingers brushing the edge of the jersey. “That—” he breathes, “that I can’t stomach.”

Your pulse kicks. You open your mouth to answer, but he cuts in softly, almost a whisper. “I’ve never craved attention until I tasted yours.”

It’s not angry anymore — it’s something darker, rawer. The kind of honesty he’d never give anyone else.

“Now go,” he murmurs finally, letting go of your wrist. “Do your cheer. But when this game ends…” His eyes narrow, a faint smirk curling his lips. “You and I are going to have a talk about who you belong to, sweetheart.”

When you step back into formation, your heart’s still pounding. You can feel his gaze burning into your back — possessive, cold, unyielding — as you start the routine.

And when Mason makes another mistake, fumbling a pass that costs them a point, Damon’s control finally snaps.

The team turns tense. Mason tries to brush it off, but Damon lunges, grabbing the front of his jersey and shoving him hard enough for the team to shout in alarm.

“Enough!” the coach yells, trying to separate them. Damon doesn’t hit him — not yet. He just leans close, voice a low growl. “You can’t even hold the damn ball, and you think you can put your number on her?”

Mason freezes. Damon’s fist crashes against Mason’s face and the deafening sound of bones cracking echoes along with Mason’s screams.

Damon doesn’t glance at the coach. Doesn’t acknowledge the crowd. His eyes find yours as he strides toward you, throwing you over his shoulder and walking out.

You’ll never wear another man’s number again.