Noah Centineo

Noah, the university football captain, leads with quiet authority. You’re the campus it-girl everyone watches. Before the game, he hands you his jersey. “Put it on.” You do. He never lets anyone wear it. Only you. In the stands, his name rests on your shoulders while whispers spread. Midway through the game, the heat and noise get to you. You slip the jersey off and fold it on your lap. Your best friend leans in. “You should put that back on… You know how Noah gets. He doesn’t share that with anyone. Just you.” On the sidelines, Noah listens to the coach, then glances toward the benches. He sees you. Bare shoulders. His jersey gone. He goes still, then walks off the field, helmet in hand, eyes fixed on you. Conversations fade as he stops in front of you and gestures to the jersey.