And when he laughed, I realized…he didn’t think it was weird. He didn’t see it as anything more than a coincidence that I was the tiger.
The relief that flooded through me was dizzying. He didn’t know. He had no idea.
He smiled wider, his eyes glinting. “Alright, then, Tiger. Keep your secrets.”
“Adler,” the trainer said exasperatedly, pulling on his arm again. “Let’s get that ankle looked at.”
Matty exhaled through his nose, still watching me like he wasn’t ready to move. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he muttered, his grin lingering as he continued past me.
He’d barely taken three steps when a voice echoed from the far end of the tunnel…the spirit coordinator appeared, her tone clipped and impatient.
“Five minutes are up, Ophelia!”
Her voice cracked through the air like a gunshot. My whole body went still.
Matty stopped. The trainers did, too, glancing at each other. Slowly, he turned his head back toward me.
“Ophelia?” he repeated, his voice soft, almost curious. The name rolled off his tongue like he was testing it, tasting it…savoring it. “That’s your name?”
For a heartbeat, his grin flickered, half amusement, half disbelief. Then it shifted, tightening at the edges, something darker creeping in beneath the charm.
My stomach twisted.
He didn’t say anything else, just looked at me for a long moment before the trainer tugged him forward again. But that look, sharp and knowing, followed me long after he disappeared down the tunnel.
By the time the fourth quarter rolled around, the ache in my chest hadn’t faded. The crowd pulsed with a wild kind of energy, the bleachers shaking under the weight of stomping feet and shouting voices. It felt like the whole stadium was breathing in unison—loud, fevered, unstoppable.
But all I could feel was that last look he’d given me…etched behind my eyelids, sitting heavy under my skin. I’d replayed it a hundred times between cheers and tumbles, between the fake energy and the forced exuberance. Every time, my stomach flipped the same way it had when he said my name.
“Alright!” the spirit coordinator shouted, clapping her hands as the scoreboard flashed 21–17, South Carolina on top. Losing Matty had been a big blow, even with all the offensive weapons on the team. “Last push! Big finish!”
Groans rippled through the sideline, but the girls still forced bright smiles, shaking out their pom-poms as the band kicked upanother fight song that sounded a little too hopeful for how the game was going.
I nodded, though the world outside the mesh was a blur of lights and sound, a haze of orange and white. My legs ached. My throat was dry. And every so often, when the noise died down between plays, I thought I could still hear his voice.
I forced my arms to move, my head to nod in rhythm, but my thoughts were nowhere near the field. They were on him. The tunnel. His voice when he’d saidbaby.
The crowd suddenly erupted again, a surge so fierce it vibrated through the turf and up my legs.
I scanned the field until I spotted him…Matty, jogging back onto the field, his stride uneven with the faintest limp.
He jogged to his spot on the line, shaking out his hands as the offense reset. Parker shouted something to him, and Matty turned his head, nodded once, and settled into position.
My breath caught. He shouldn’t have been out there, not after limping off like that, pain etched into every move. But there he was, determined as ever, his jaw tight…eyes locked downfield like he could will the game to bend his way.
The line shifted. The center snapped the ball, and the roar of the crowd fell into a strange, suspended hush…like the whole stadium was holding its breath.
Helmets cracked, bodies slammed, and through the chaos, I caught a flash of him. Matty. Breaking free. His stride uneven but relentless, driving forward as if pain didn’t exist. Parker launched the ball, a perfect spiral slicing through the sky.
And Matty caught it.
He dodged the first defender with a quick side step that shouldn’t have been possible on that ankle, the second with a twist that left the guy grabbing at air. Two more came for him, closing fast, and Matty cut left, slipping through the gap like he’d rehearsed it a thousand times.
The field opened up ahead of him. Forty yards. Thirty.
The crowd’s noise climbed, a rolling thunder that shook through the turf and into my chest. He shouldn’t have been that fast. Not when he’d limped off barely an hour ago.
A defender dove, fingertips grazing his jersey…but Matty didn’t break stride. He drove forward, the ball locked tight against his side, every step defying reason.
