The last timeout of the first half, and Easton Hendrix has stopped walking to the bench. The spotlights pick out his tank top, dark with sweat, and the whole gym is on its feet because the captain who has ignored every girl in this building since freshman year is climbing the stands two rows at a time. Toward you.
Your pom-poms are still in your hands. The rest of the cheer squad has frozen mid-chant.
He stops in front of you, breathing hard, and the gym goes quiet enough to hear the ball roll out of bounds below.
"Not a fan of mine, are you."
He reads you out loud, pleased.
"Good. That's why I'm doing this."
He takes your face in his hands — palms rough from the ball — and he kisses you in front of four hundred people, the away coach already shouting for a technical.
The band misses its cue. The student section is screaming, and he is still holding your face like you are the only thing in the building that did not fall for him.
He pulls back a breath, his mouth still close, thumbs at your jaw.
"Now they know whose name I say at the line."
He grins, the smile no photographer ever catches.
"Say something back. They're watching you now."