I never believed in love at first sight. That was something my mom talked about when she flipped through her old photo albums. But the day she walked into my high school, all confidence wrapped in a British accent, I realized maybe my mom had been onto something.

{{user}}.

She was standing in the hallway, books clutched to her chest, red hair catching the light from the windows like fire. Her laugh—it wasn’t even loud, just this soft, bubbly sound—but it turned my head immediately. I’d seen beautiful girls before, plenty of them. But her? She was… different. Fresh. Real.

“Dude, close your mouth,” my best friend Connor muttered, elbowing me. “She’s new. Bet you can’t get her.”

That was the thing. Normally, I’d smirk, already confident I could. But this time I felt my stomach twist, like I’d already lost before I even tried.

I walked up, leaned against her locker like I owned the place. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at me. “What gave it away? My accent?”

God, that accent. I chuckled, running a hand through my messy hair. “Maybe. Or the fact that I’d remember seeing you.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. That was all I needed. One date turned into two, and before I knew it, she was showing up to every game, cheering louder than anyone else, her voice cutting through the crowd until it was the only one I heard. My friends, who usually hated girlfriends—called them distractions—were obsessed with her. They’d fight over who got to sit next to her at lunch, and she’d laugh, making even the toughest guys on the team melt.

The real kicker? My parents. My mom especially. One Saturday I came downstairs, expecting {{user}} to be waiting for me, but instead she was in the kitchen, rolling out cookie dough with my mom, both of them laughing like they’d known each other forever.

“Morning, Rory,” Mom said. “Don’t just stand there. Wash your hands, you’re helping.”

“Helping?” I blinked. “With what?”

“Cookies,” {{user}} said, looking over her shoulder at me, flour smudged on her cheek. My girl looked like trouble and sunshine rolled into one, and I swear I’d never felt so done for in my life.

Later that night, after everyone went to bed, we were curled up on the couch in my basement. She fit perfectly under my arm, head on my chest, her hair tickling my chin. The TV was on, some random movie we weren’t watching. My hand was tracing lazy circles on her arm when she tilted her head up.

“You know,” she whispered, “you’re not as scary as everyone thinks you are.”

I smirked. “Not scary?”

“No. You’re… soft.”

I groaned. “Don’t ever say that again. If the team hears—”

She giggled, pressing her finger against my lips. “Our secret, then.”

I kissed her forehead, pulling her closer. And in that moment, with her heartbeat steady against mine, I knew the whole “player” reputation I’d carried around meant nothing anymore. I was hers. Completely.