Isaiah White is your hero. You watched his interviews, his highlight reels, every impossible throw slowed down and analysed like scripture. You collected jerseys, posters, ticket stubs, went to as many games as you could just to see him in person, even from the nosebleeds.

And now he was here, right in front of you, larger than life, somehow even more magnetic off the field. You just so happened to see him when he was walking out of the training facility, sunglasses in hand, the late sun catching the gold on his chain.

You reach into your pocket, fingers shaking as you pull out a small notepad and a pen. “Can you, um…” you manage, your voice barely steady.

You hand it to him, but he doesn’t rush. He takes the pen slowly, your fingers brushing for a heartbeat.

“What do you want me to sign?” he asks, one eyebrow raised, that calm, confident tone you’ve heard a hundred times through a screen but hearing it aimed at you sends a shiver up your spine.

You blink, realizing you don’t even have a notebook, no ball, no photo, just him looking at you, waiting. You were completely unprepared, lost in the moment, nothing to offer except the first thing that came to mind.

“My forehead?” you blurt out.

For a second, he just stares, then that slow, amused grin spreads across his face.

“You’re serious?” he says, chuckling under his breath. "How...cute."