Zack’s POV
The first game of the season is always a circus. It’s not just the smell of kettle corn and sweat or the sound of the band’s warmups echoing off the metal bleachers. It’s the collective anxiety of a hundred teenage boys, half of whom have just learned how to tie their own ties and the other half who are still convinced that Gatorade is a food group. I, Captain of the Football Team, am supposed to be above it all. Calm. Zen. The Buddha of the gridiron.
Which is a joke, because all week I’ve been mentally replaying conversations with Alex like I’m prepping for a Broadway role. I tried to tell myself he wouldn’t even be at the game. Derek said their mom was working late. Alex hates sports crowds (so he claims). No chance he’d show, right?
So, naturally, the second I step onto the field—helmet in hand, crowd roaring, cleats squeaking on the turf—who do I see in the front row, arms waving, looking like he’s just won the lottery? Alex. Five-foot-three, glasses glinting in the stadium lights, a grin so wide I can see it from midfield. He’s squeezed into the front row like he owns it, next to Jamie (who’s already pointing out something in the playbook) and a couple of drama club kids waving a hand-painted sign: GO BIG OR GO HOME!
My heart trips over itself and falls down a metaphorical staircase.
“Dude, you good?” Derek’s voice crackles in my earhole. He’s already suited up, chinstrap dangling, watching me with the classic Big Brother Oblivious Concern™.
“Yeah,” I lie, cracking my knuckles. “Just…stretching.”
I try to tune out Alex and his sign. I try to focus on the first snap, the rush of the crowd, the blinding glare of the stadium lights. We’re supposed to run a simple play, ease into the game, establish dominance. I’m not thinking about Alex, I tell myself. Definitely not thinking about his feet tucked up under him in the bleachers, or the way his armpits are just visible through his sleeveless hoodie when he raises his hands to cheer, or the ridiculous way my stomach swoops every time I see him—
The snap comes. The ball feels slick, my gloves suddenly too big. I see the receiver break right and I throw—except, no, I launch the ball right into the arms of the wrong jersey. Their linebacker, #52, a brick with legs, snatches it like he’s been waiting for Christmas all year.
I have a split second to contemplate the futility of life choices before adrenaline slams me into motion. I chase #52 down the sideline, diving for his hips, and tackle him hard enough that the ball pops loose. I recover it before the referee even catches up.
The crowd erupts, half in horror, half in relief. I scramble up, grass-stained and mortified, and the only thing louder than my heartbeat is the roar from the front row—Alex is on his feet, waving his sign, screaming something I can’t make out but which I choose to interpret as support and not savage mockery.
Coach calls a timeout. My teammates slap my helmet and try to act like that was all part of the plan.
“Nice recovery, Captain,” Derek mutters, grinning like the traitor he is. “Maybe next time throw to someone not wearing the other team’s colors?”
I flip him off, grateful for the cage on my helmet to hide my face.
⸻
The rest of the game becomes a weird mix of panic and euphoria. Every time I glance at the bleachers, Alex is there—sometimes sitting, sometimes waving that stupid sign, sometimes laughing with Jamie. He looks out of place in a sea of team jerseys and painted faces, but he also looks right, like the whole night has been set up just for him.
And weirdly, I start to play better. Not just better—great. My passes are tighter, my runs sharper, my mind clearer. I call out an audible in the third quarter, a tight end hitch route, that catches the defense off guard, and as Derek breaks free for a touchdown, I catch Alex leaping out of his seat, arms up, mouth wide in a cheer. For the first time in my life, I don’t care what the rest of the school thinks. I just want to impress the kid in row one.
Even my teammates notice.
“Who’s the little dude with the sign?” asks Mason, our left tackle, as we jog back to the bench.
“Alex,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Derek’s brother.”
“He your good luck charm or something?”
I shrug. “Guess so.”
After a while, the nerves fade and I’m just…having fun. Every good play, every drive, I look for Alex. He’s always watching. Sometimes he’s biting his lip, sometimes he’s cheering, sometimes he’s just smiling that sharp, secret smile I’ve started to dream about.
By the time the fourth quarter ticks down and we’re up by two touchdowns, the whole stadium feels like a living, breathing thing. For once, I don’t feel like I’m just playing for a crowd or a coach or a college scout. I’m playing for Alex. That thought is terrifying and also, somehow, exhilarating.
We win. The team mob rushes the field, helmets and pads colliding, cheers ringing out. I go through the motions—handshakes, high-fives, the whole Captain thing. But my eyes keep drifting to the bleachers, looking for a flash of glasses, a crooked grin, a pair of bare ankles swinging in the cool night air.
But Alex is gone.
⸻
I find him, finally, behind the gym. He’s sitting on the steps, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Jamie’s nowhere to be seen. The stadium lights cast weird shadows on the ground, and for a second, he looks so small I almost forget how much power he holds over me.
He looks up when I approach. His eyes catch the light, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.
“So,” I start, voice cracking embarrassingly, “that was…a choice, sitting front row with a sign and everything.”
Alex gives me an innocent look, which is code for “I know exactly what I did.” He wiggles his toes causing his flip flops to dangle, glancing up through his lashes. “Was it distracting?”
“You have no idea.” I run a hand through my hair, still damp with sweat. “You know I threw an interception on the first play because of you?”
His grin is pure mischief. “But you got it back, didn’t you?”
“Barely.” I try to sound annoyed, but it comes out breathless. “What were you trying to do? Make me screw up?”
Alex stands, brushing invisible dust from his shorts, and shrugs like it’s all no big deal. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d notice me.”
I stare at him, really stare, the pounding in my chest louder than the crowd at kickoff. “Trust me,” I say, voice low, “I notice you.”
He doesn’t look away.
The silence between us is thick and humming, alive with possibility and dread. I want to say a hundred things, but all I can do is wait for Alex to speak.
Whatever his plan was, it worked. I’ve never been more aware of him in my life. And suddenly, I’m not sure who’s playing the game and who’s already lost.
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