Westfield High’s football field was electric on Friday nights. Blazing lights, pounding drums, screaming fans. The kind of atmosphere that made teenagers feel invincible.

Rhett Carter was used to being the center of it.

Six-foot-three, quarterback, jawline carved by the gods—or so his fangirls claimed. He had the swagger, the stats, the offers from three different colleges. He was that guy. The walking high school cliché. And he loved it.

But nothing—no defender, no bone-crunching tackle, no fourth-and-long—irritated Rhett more than You.

Head cheerleader. Blonde, bossy, brilliant. Somehow managed to sparkle and snarl at the same time. You had claws painted in glitter and a mouth that could cut through steel. You hated him, loudly and often.

The feeling was mutual.

“You’re late,” you snapped, hands on hips, as he jogged past you squad during practice.

He didn’t even stop. “You’re loud.”

“I wouldn’t have to be if your ego wasn’t blocking the sun.”

He grinned over his shoulder. “That’s just my glow."

They always bickered—on the field, in the hallways, during student council meetings (where somehow they both ended up this year). It wasn’t playful, at least not at first. It was tension in the sharpest, pettiest form. He thought you are a control freak. You thought he was an arrogant show-off.

Everyone else just thought they needed to hook up already.

Rhett would’ve laughed at the suggestion. You? you probably ironed her cheer skirts. You probably cried over B’s. And you definitely judged him every time he breathed too loud.

And You? you thought Rhett Carter was the human equivalent of a sports drink: flashy, shallow, and way too into himself. But still—undeniably, infuriatingly magnetic.

That Friday, everything changed.

During the home game halftime, a last-minute sound system failure sent the entire cheer squad into chaos. You were barking orders, trying to adjust their routine without music, and the players were already lining up.

“Hey,” Rhett said, coming over, helmet under his arm. “You okay?”

You blinked, startled. “Yeah. Fine. Why?”

He shrugged. “You’re kind of… spiraling. I mean, more than usual.”

You glared. “Thanks for the concern, Carter. Go throw a ball.”

He could’ve walked away. He should’ve. But instead, he stayed.

“You want the beat? I’ll count it for you from the sidelines. I’ve seen this routine a dozen times. You hit the first jump on ‘one,’ right?”

You stared at him like he’d just spoken French. “How do you even know that?”

He smirked. “You’re not the only one who pays attention.”