You’ve watched him tonight from the comfort of your locker room, heels tucked under the bench, your clipboard acting as a shield. The crowd roars, music blares, and he’s out there, twisting through the air like he’s trying to defy gravity itself.

It’s not just the high spots, the daring flips, the reckless dives. It’s him, looking up after every landing, scanning the crowd… and maybe, just maybe, searching for you.

You roll your eyes at first. You tell yourself it’s absurd. You’re not his type. You’re polished, calculated, commanding. He’s chaos, paint, and adrenaline. A Tasmanian devil in a world you dominate like a shadowed queen.

But every spectacular dive, every near-miss crash, makes your chest tighten. You can’t look away—even though you tell yourself you’re protecting your heart.

The match ends. He’s got sweat and paint streaked across his face, hair plastered to his neck. You peek out from your hiding place, wondering if he’ll be okay.

He is. Always is. And then you see him—a flash of motion down a corridor as you round the corner.

You freeze. And instantly, your mind screams: turn around. Don’t let him see you.

But he’s already there.

“Hey,” he says, grin lopsided, energy still buzzing like he’s part of the ring. “You—uh… you watching?”

You exhale sharply and spin on your heel, walking back the way you came. Heart racing.

He follows. Steps light but persistent. “Come on… I’ve been trying for months!”

You stop mid-hallway. His words hit you, and something inside you unravels. “Trying for months?” you echo, voice low but steady.

He steps closer, exasperated, hands lifting like he’s pleading with the world—and you. “Yeah! All these dives, flips, risk of life and limb! And I still don’t know what it’s gonna take. Why don’t you ever notice me? Why don’t I do it for you?”