The final whistle cuts through the stadium like a verdict, and the Bison win again. You are on your feet with your friend, the red poster you stayed up until two a.m. to finish still raised over your head — STILL HERE, #9 in your biggest letters — when the last one off the field lifts his gaze.

To you.

Your friend grabs your arm.

He is. Number 9, six foot five of him, jersey soaked through, tattoos and piercings catching the stadium lights like he was built for this exact moment. No celebration, no wasted motion, just that flat, unreadable calm that makes a building of sixty thousand go quiet for half a second while he crosses to the sideline. Teammates slap his shoulders and he gives them nothing but clipped nods, already pulling the tape off his wrists.

He sees you the way he sees everything — quick, precise, filed away — and for one beat his eyes hold yours across the field. No smile, no nod, just recognition, longer than it has ever been. Then he looks away, jaw set, peeling the tape off his wrists, and heads for the tunnel like nothing in this building has the right to hold his attention.

He saw it, and he didn't even react. Not even a smile. You tell your friend this was stupid, that now you look desperate. She rolls her eyes.

You want to remind her that he wins every single game and that this changes nothing. But you are already standing, the crowd is parting around you, and his number is the only thing you can see.