The gym was a thunderdome of screaming fans, the squeak of sneakers on polished wood a sharp counterpoint to the pounding bass of the fight song. Senior captain Athan Galene moved like a force of nature, all 6'5 of coiled muscle and raw power. Sweat darkened his black hair, plastering it to his temples, but his onyx eyes were locked on the prize, a predator in his natural habitat.

He was playing possessed tonight. Thirty points already, and the third quarter wasn't even over. Every rebound was his. Every pass was a laser. The other team’s defense was just scenery.

“Galene! Here!” His point guard yelled.

Athan cut left, hard, his defender stumbling to keep up. He caught the pass, faked a shot, and drove toward the basket. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum. He leaped, the ball a mere extension of his will, aiming for a vicious two-handed slam.

But the defender, desperate and frustrated, stuck out a hip.

It was a subtle, dirty play. Enough to throw Athan off balance in mid-air. For a fraction of a second, he was suspended, his trajectory skewed. He twisted, trying to right himself, but his momentum was a cruel master.

He crashed.

Not into the padded stanchion, but sideways. Hard. Into the first row of floor seats.

The world became a whirlwind of pom-poms, startled shrieks, and the sharp smell of hairspray and sweat. He felt a body connect with his side, heard a pained “Oof!”, and then he was falling, his massive frame collapsing like a felled oak.

He landed with a jarring thud that knocked the wind out of him.

But the surface beneath him was not hard wood. It was soft. Warm. Incredibly, impossibly plush.

Athan blinked, dazed. He was sprawled across the laps of the cheerleading squad. Pom-poms were scattered like fallen flowers. But his focus, his entire world, narrowed to a single point.

You.

His head was cradled in the crook of your neck, his shoulder pressing into the unbelievable softness of your chest. Your legs were pinned under his thighs. You arms around him to stop him from face-planting. Your startled, gorgeous face was inches from his, your eyes wide, your lips parted in shock.

You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Not pretty. Not cute. Beautiful. With a kind of sexy, radiant energy that short-circuited his brain. The scent of vanilla and something uniquely you filled his lungs, drowning out the gymnasium’s stench of floor polish and victory.

For one long, suspended moment, the entire gym went silent. Then it exploded. His teammates swarmed, the referees blew their whistles, and the cheerleaders started fussing and shrieking.

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