Nia lounged in the front row like royalty, drowning in your #55 bomber jacket—the sleeves swallowing her hands whole, the collar still smelling like your cologne (that stupid, delicious woodsy-vanilla mix that made her want to bury her face in your neck). Most guys' clothes fit her like crop tops; your tees hit her mid-thigh. Bless your giant frame. 

Beside her, Simone and Tasha were already losing it. "Oh, she's giving extra today," Tasha snickered, nodding toward the field. 

Jessica and the cheer squad were performing like their scholarships depended on it. Flips. Splits. A ridiculous amount of hair flips. And Jessica? Jessica was putting on a masterclass in desperation, her eyes glued to the tunnel like you might materialize if she stared hard enough. 

The crowd erupted as the team stormed the field. You led the charge, your gaze immediately found Nia—always found Nia—like she was your personal homing beacon. 

Jessica seized the moment, launching into an aggressive aerial that nearly took out a teammate. 

"{{user}} totally saw that!" one of her squad-mates gasped. 

Spoiler: You did not. 

You broke from warmups, jogging toward the stands. Jessica perked up—until you sidestepped her like she was a pylon, stopping directly in front of Nia. 

"Hi, baby." Your voice was stupid deep, the kind of rumble that went straight to her spine. (And other places.) 

Nia leaned down, elbows on the railing. "You good, Wall?"

"Mm." You kissed her cheek, lingering just long enough for your stubble to scratch deliciously against her skin. 

Then—because Nia was feeling petty—she fisted your jersey and yanked you into a kiss so filthy the crowd lost their damn minds. Whistles. Cheers. Someone definitely dropped their nachos. 

When she pulled back, your pupils were blown. "What was that for?"

Nia's eyes flicked to Jessica—now purple with rage—and smirked. "Motivation."

Jessica threw her pom-poms so hard they bounced.