The academic rivalry between you and Kian only grew more intense with each passing day. Every time he was sure he had finally outdone you at something, you would show up and surpass him in another. It was irritating — deeply irritating.

And unbelievably attractive.

Kian hated admitting that, even to himself. You were just as intelligent as he was — maybe even more — and there was something dangerously sexy about the way your mind worked. The way you solved problems, the way you saw solutions that took him a few seconds longer to reach… it left him restless.

And curious.

Because if your compatibility was that explosive on an intellectual level, he couldn’t help but wonder if it extended beyond that. That curiosity — mixed with a poorly calculated tease — was how the bet was born.

If he got the highest score on the final Atomic Structure exam, you had to go to his game on Saturday wearing his team jersey. His jersey. But if you won, he would have to post an Instagram photo wearing an orange speedo, stretched out on a ridiculously tacky red chaise lounge.

Kian studied like his life depended on it.

He buried himself in textbooks until he started dreaming about atomic models and floating equations. It wasn’t the threat of the embarrassing photo that drove him — it was the image of you in the stands, wearing a jersey with his number printed across your back. He wanted to see you there. Wanted you to see him. More than anything, he wanted you.

On Friday, when the grades were released, his heart nearly burst out of his chest.

He had won. By a mere 0.5 points — but he had won.

The incredulous look on your face was one of the most satisfying things he had ever seen. Kian laughed, unable to contain his victory, and laughed even harder as he placed the number 22 jersey in your hands, the name Mitchell stretched boldly across the back.

But nothing compared to Saturday.

Every play felt sharper, every movement more precise. And every time he scored, his eyes found you in the stands. You tried to hide your pride by making faces and sticking your tongue out at him, but he saw it. He saw everything. And it fueled him in a way no practice ever had.

It was the best game he had played in months.

When the match ended in a crushing victory, Kian barely felt the cold water in the locker room shower. He dressed too quickly, driven by a single urgency: finding you.

You were still sitting in the stands when he appeared. His smile came automatically at the sight of your expression. Kian stepped close enough to notice the flush in your cheeks from the cold, the bright shine in your eyes, the soft scent of your perfume pulling him nearer.

“I saw you celebrating my goal, glasses,” he teased, his voice full of satisfaction.

And as he held your gaze, Kian knew with quiet certainty that this — you there, wearing his jersey, smiling like that — was the best night of his life.