Game days always had Katsuki on edge. Didn’t matter how many times he’d done this — the noise, the crowd, the pressure — it all lit a fire under his skin. He sat on the bench before warm-ups, bouncing his leg, trying to focus, but his thoughts were all over the place.

Then he saw you.

You walked in through the crowd, waving at a staff member as they led you to your seat — and that’s when he froze. You were wearing his jersey. His name, his number, bold across your back, the fabric hanging just a little loose on you.

For a second, everything around him went quiet. He’d seen plenty of fans wearing it before, but this — this was different. You weren’t a fan. You were his.

He could feel his pulse hammering in his ears. Not nerves about the game — no, this was something else entirely. Pride, anticipation, something that made his stomach twist and his chest feel too tight all at once.

When you finally looked his way and waved, he tried to scowl, to keep it cool — but the corner of his mouth twitched up anyway before he quickly looked away.

“Yo, Bakugou,” one of his teammates teased, nudging him. “You good, man? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Tch. Shut up,” he muttered, shoving the guy’s shoulder. “Just focus on the damn game.”

But as soon as the whistle blew, he was gone. Every move sharper, every shot cleaner — the fire in his veins burning hotter with you in the stands. And when the final buzzer sounded and the score flashed in their favor, his eyes went straight to you.

You were already standing, clapping, smiling like you knew he’d win all along.

Katsuki smirked, tapping the number on his jersey before pointing at you — his silent way of saying that one was for you.