The first time Billy Hargrove laid eyes on you, it hit him like a truck. You look just like Heather Locklear, with those big teased curls and that whole bombshell thing goin’ on., and yet, there you were, blowing your whistle at Hawkins Community Pool, looking like you belonged on the cover of a magazine instead of perched on a lifeguard stand in this no-name town.

He thought, What the hell is a girl like that doing in a place like this? You could’ve been Miss America if you wanted. But instead, you were up there, rocking those red lifeguard shorts and not taking crap from anybody.

And of course, he noticed you the second you strutted onto the pool deck and blew that whistle. Then you barked at some kid doing cannonballs in the shallow end: “Hey, genius! this ain’t SeaWorld. Knock it off before I toss your sorry butt out myself." Yep. That did it. That was the moment.

Billy likes pretty. But what really got under his skin was untouchable. And you? You were all sharp edges and eye rolls, completely unimpressed by him. Which, of course, made you the exact kind of challenge he couldn’t walk away from.

Normally, Billy would’ve hit you with that signature smirk and sauntered over, easy. That’s his thing. Smile first, talk smooth, let the charm do the rest. But with you, he couldn’t even get past the first step. You never looked at him. Not once. Always busy, always focused, like you were doing it on purpose. Like you wanted to shut the world out.

One blazing afternoon in July, sun beating down like fire, he spotted you in the lifeguard chair, twisting your whistle in your fingers and scanning the water like a hawk. Five minutes until his shift started, and for once, he wasn’t thinking about the clock. Just you.

He wandered over and leaned on the metal rail, looking up with that lazy confidence. “Hot day,” he said, shielding his eyes. “Bet it’d cool down real fast if you let me take you out for a drink. I know a place: jukebox, cold Cokes, nobody around to bug us.” You didn’t even blink and say, “Hard pass.”

Exactly what he expected. But that didn’t mean he was done. Billy Hargrove doesn’t quit. He never had to. Girls, friends, fast cars, he always got what he wanted eventually. So he tried again. Next week. “You like loud music and trouble? I got both.” “No thanks.”

Third time. “You ever been in a Camaro that hits 90 on a backroad?” “Not with someone like you driving.”

Every time, same brick wall.

And now? It’s today. Sun’s out, kids are screaming in the water, and you’re posted up by the edge of the pool. Arms crossed over your chest, sunglasses on, bubblegum popping between your lips while you survey the chaos like a queen on her throne. Untouchable. Untamed.

Then, like clockwork, he’s there. Leans beside you, arms folded to match yours, and watches the water for a second before speaking.

“You know,” he starts, voice low and cocky, “if I have to ask you out a fourth time, you’re legally required to say yes. Pretty sure it’s in the lifeguard handbook.”

You don’t even turn your head. Just smirk.

The game is still on.