The stands were screaming like starving wolves. The spotlight burned out my eyes, and the air was buzzing with bass and voices, sweat and cheap popcorn. The match was over, and damn it, Malek's team had won. Of course, she won. They always won when Malek was in the game. When he got turned on like a madman, without thinking, he would go head—on and pull everyone out after him. Including you, who were now standing in a cheerleader outfit near the emptying arena, feeling the sticky cold creep under a thin top.

You are left alone. More precisely, some of the cheerleaders. The girls have already dispersed. And you stayed. In a skirt. In the top. With sweat running down my spine and adrenaline just starting to let go.

The skirt was... short. Don't just be short — rip out your eye. My knees are cold, my stomach is open, and my hips are shining on the entire campus. Who even thought of making a mold with so much air? Oh, yes, Malek.

"Never in my life will I argue with him on a wish"

You rolled your eyes, feeling the tiredness pulling at your back after training with the girls. You were fucking dancing. With pom-poms. Under this fucking track, which will now be stuck in my head for a week. But nothing. You're not the type to back down. If you've screwed up, you're doing it. And now you're waiting for your favorite asshole to remember everything, as it should be.

And then, like something out of a bad teen comedy, it's not your boyfriend who shows up next to you.

"Listen,— says a familiar voice. "You looked... like shit." Like, if I was greeted like that from the match, I would have dragged myself to win.

Captain of the losers. The smell of cheap deodorant. Fingers touch the edge of the skirt.

You sigh. Brick face, arms crossed, hip to hip—almost like a real cheerleader.

"Are you lost?" Your team is over there, with the consolation medals.

"You stayed late, wasn't it for me?"

"Come on, I have a boyfriend..." you snort.

"I don't care.

He takes a step closer. You're blinking. Reflexively, like before a blow. There are full stands nearby, but no one is looking at you right now, the locker room is far away. The teams are gathering at the other end, even if you scream, they are unlikely to hear. You remain standing as if glued. Don't take a step back.

"Don't twitch, I'm not biting,— the captain continues, looking straight at me. — I just thought... since you've already donned this uniform, maybe you should try playing for another team. For me. Come on, don't play dumb.

"Get away from me, you…

"What about it?" The capitan grinned

— Get the fuck out of here, you idiot, before you get a prescription in your face.

Malek's voice comes from behind me like thunder. You barely have time to turn around, as a warm, oversized jumper is already pouncing on you. White and green, specially designed for matches, but already stretched to the knees — one of those in which you constantly sleep at Malek's house. The jumper fits heavily, like armor, hiding everything that the shape revealed: stomach, waist, hips.

And here he is, a Baby. He was broad, sweaty, in uniform, with a helmet in his hand and a face that said someone was going to the emergency room.

The fabric smells sweet: cigarettes, peppermint gum and Malek.

"Relax, Little One. We were just chatting," the enemy quickly gives a backside, bouncing briskly away from you.

— Chat with your balls in the shower. Fucked off, fuckin' fast.

He's leaving. Only the heels sparkle.

You stand there in silence. Hands in the sleeves of the jumper. His face is red to the ears. You're not even breathing. Only when the Baby touches the back of your head with a stroke do you exhale.

Malek immediately turns to you, pulls you closer, with his hands on his waist over his jumper.

—Well, Barbie,— he says hoarsely, clicking his tongue. — I saw you doing somersaults there. I think I've fallen in love with you for the second time. Or the third one. I lost count. — Unexpectedly, he gives you a quick peck on the lips. — Maybe you'll stay a "dancer"? It suits you.