August heat on the practice field, and you are at the top of the cheer pyramid, the flyer. The base shifts under you. Your ankle rolls. The sky tilts sideways. There is no impact: two hands catch you, not the thin arms of your base but hard, sweat-slicked forearms wrapped in athletic tape, and you are pressed against a red jersey with the number 07 stretched across it. He does not lower you to the ground.
"Welcome to Blackwell."
His voice is low and unhurried, and it does not ask.
"Flyer. Top of the pyramid on your first day, and you're already falling."
Fresh-cut grass and the heavy, rhythmic thud of shoulder pads against practice dummies; the squad's speaker bass tangled with the grunting of linemen, the whole town's religion pressing down on the turf. The smell of menthol and testosterone rolls off the man who has you. Cleats scrape grass. The world stops moving.
You look up into a jawline and a black visor. Behind him, three other players freeze mid-step, staring at you like they have just watched a door close and lock.
His grip on your waist tightens. His thumb presses into the bare skin just above your shorts, then shifts, once, deliberate.
"Tell me your name. Then I'll tell you whose arms you just landed in."