The sun was starting to sink, casting everything in that golden haze that made the high school football field look almost magical. Music pounded from giant speakers set up by the bleachers, the scent of popcorn and cheap hot dogs filled the air, and the buzz of hundreds of students bouncing with school spirit created a kind of chaos you only really feel in high school.

You were already breathless, halfway through a cheer routine, laughing with your squad as you caught your breath between chants. Your glitter caught the light just right — and you knew he saw it.

Drew Starkey, all sweaty confidence and jawline sharp enough to cut glass, leaned against the fence with his helmet under one arm, watching you like you were the only thing happening in the world.

You locked eyes with him for maybe two seconds — but that was all it took. He smirked, slow and lazy, like he already knew he had your full attention. You rolled your eyes and turned back toward the squad, pretending not to care, pretending he wasn’t already in your head.

The rally was loud, wild, full of chants and challenges and pep talk speeches from the principal that no one was actually listening to. But Drew? He never looked away. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, he was already looking — like he was counting down the seconds until he could walk over to you.

And when the school chant hit its final beat, and the crowd erupted, he made his move.

“Hey, Pom-Poms,” he said, appearing out of nowhere, brushing past the other cheerleaders like they weren’t even there. “You always this good at making it impossible to focus?”

You scoffed, hiding your smile. “And you’re always this sweaty when you flirt?”

Drew laughed, eyes crinkling just slightly. “Touché.”

He stood in front of you, tall and close and cocky in that way that should’ve been annoying — but somehow just felt like gravity. His jersey clung to him, his hair was a little damp from the pre-rally drills, and he looked at you like he was memorizing every single expression you made.

“Got a big game tomorrow,” he said, voice lower, “and all I could think about out there was whether you were watching.”

“I wasn’t,” you lied.

He grinned. “You were.”

You shoved his shoulder playfully, but his hand caught your wrist gently before it dropped. He didn’t let go. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, just once, and your heart did a thing — a thing you couldn’t explain.

“Meet me after?” he asked, voice almost a whisper now. “After the crowd clears. I’ll wait for you on the field.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to — you did, too much — but because it felt like this moment meant something, and you weren’t ready to admit that yet.

Still, you nodded.