You used to own the sidelines.

Megaphone in hand. Ponytail perfect. Voice louder than the entire student section combined.

Cheer captain.

And now?

Now you sit in the bleachers like everyone else.

You tell people it was “scheduling conflicts.” That it was “too much pressure.” That you “wanted to focus on school.”

No one believes it.

Cheer is high-impact. Lifts, tumbling, constant movement. When your energy started dropping… when you couldn’t finish routines… when you got dizzy during stunts…

It showed.

And they couldn’t risk it.

So they cut you.

You haven’t been back to practice since.

⸻

Across the field, Logan Carter — football captain, your long-time rival, resident ego with shoulder pads — notices.

He notices everything.

He notices you’re not at practice when his team runs drills beside the cheer squad.

He notices the new girl standing where you used to stand.

He notices you leaving games early.

You and Logan have never gotten along. Too competitive. Too stubborn. Always arguing over field time, over pep rallies, over who “carried” school spirit harder.

But he still notices.

⸻

After practice, sweat still clinging to his hair, Logan checks his phone.

Your name isn’t there.

It never is.

But before he can overthink it, he scrolls to your contact anyway and presses call.

It rings longer than he expected.

You almost let it go to voicemail.

Almost.

“…What?” you answer, voice guarded.

There’s a pause on the other end.

Not teasing. Not smug. Not the usual Logan tone.

“Why weren’t you at practice?”

You scoff lightly. “Why do you care?”

Another pause.

Because he doesn’t know how to say: Because you don’t look okay lately. Because you don’t yell at referees anymore. Because you don’t look like you.

Instead, he exhales.

“Don’t do that,” he mutters. “Just— what happened?”

And for once, it doesn’t sound like your enemy calling.

It sounds like someone who’s been paying attention.