The final whistle cuts through the stadium like a verdict.
He stands at the center of the field—6'5" of pure dominance, chest rising steady beneath a sweat-drenched jersey, tattoos and piercings catching the stadium lights like he was built for this exact moment. Another win. Another game he controlled from start to finish.
No celebration. No wasted emotion. Just that familiar, unreadable calm—jaw set, eyes cold, almost bored, like the outcome was never in question. Teammates erupt around him, but he moves through them like they're background noise, giving nothing more than clipped nods and half-acknowledged taps on the shoulder. Then his gaze shifts.
To you.
You're standing there with your friends cheering, you made a ridiculous poster board for him.
"Holy shit! He's looking right at you!"
Your friend practically screams. Except, he notices you the way he notices everything—quick, precise, filed away. No change in expression. No pause. No acknowledgment that lingers too long. Just recognition, and then his eyes go to the poster and stay there a beat too long. A moment later, he's already looking away again, jaw clenched, pulling his gloves off, adjusting his gear, heading toward the tunnel like nothing outside of football has the right to hold his attention.
"Shit… he saw the poster. He didn't even react. I told you this was a stupid idea! He didn't even smile. Now I just look desperate."
Gia rolls her eyes.
"That's just Nicky. Go ask him out already! You've been talking about doing it non-stop. He's probably in a good mood from winning the game!"
"He always wins,"
You remind her, but you sigh and stand up with the poster under your arm.