But then he glanced up. And he saw me.
It took half a second. A blink, maybe. His eyes swept the stands like he wasn’t expecting anything. Because he was used to it being empty. Used to silence. Used to playing like no one was watching.
Then he froze. Squinted.
I threw up my arms and cheered, not caring how stupid I looked in his old practice jersey that still smelled faintly of sweat and body spray.
And then it hit him. His shoulders dropped. His mouth quirked. And he grinned. Just for me. It reminded me of sunlight breaking through a cloudy sky.
The whistle blew, and the game began in a blur of motion and color. My heart pounded as if I were the one running drills.
Dare moved across the field like he owned gravity. All sharp angles and reckless grace. He slipped through defenders like smoke, like a dare incarnate.
“Come on, Dare,” I muttered, then louder: “Let’s go!”
The guy next to me jumped, but I didn’t care. Dare made a break down the left side, faked right, cut back, and fired a shot toward the goal. The net rippled. The crowd erupted. I was on my feet, yelling my throat raw.
“Yes!”
A few people around me cheered too, but they didn’t matter. They were strangers. I was the one wearing his number,his scent still clinging to my collar. I wasn’t just watching him, I was loving him, out loud.
He didn’t look up again. Not during the rest of the match. Maybe he was too focused. Or maybe once was enough. But I watched every second. I winced with every foul, shouted when he got shoved, and threw my hands up when he scored again. And when the final whistle blew, and the team won, I stood there and let the joy burn through me.
He did it. He was doing it. And I’d been there to see it.
The crowd thinned. Students shuffled down the stands, laughing and stretching. By the time I made it to the athletic building, a brilliant sunset bruised the sky. I leaned against the brick wall by the back exit, half-hidden behind a row of shrubs, wishing I had something clever to say when he came out.
Mostly, I just waited.
Because he’d waited for me, in a hundred different ways. Through silence. Through self-sabotage. Through every sharp edge we’d both had to dull to fit together again.
The door swung open with a burst of noise, the sounds of laughter, shouts, the clanking of lockers spilled out, and then there he was.
Hair damp and curling at the edges. Bag slung over one shoulder. His T-shirt clung to his chest in a way that should’ve been illegal.
He spotted me instantly, stopping dead.
“You came,” he said.
“I wore your number,” I answered, tugging the hem of the jersey. “Hope you don’t mind.”
He laughed under his breath. “You look better in it than I ever did.”
For a moment, we just stood there, caught in that weird electric quiet that happened when every word felt too small.
“That last goal,” I said, “was disgusting.”
“Disgusting good or disgusting bad?”
I grinned. “So good I kinda hate you.”
“Thanks for being here,” he said, voice lower. “It meant a lot.”
“Couldn’t miss your first game of the season,” I said. “Had to make sure you weren’t all talk.”
“Oh, so you’re my hype man now?”
“Only if you keep scoring like that.”
