The stadium screen flickered mid-timeout, graphics shifting from player stats to something else entirely. Faculty logos. A formal header. The National Collegiate Merit Assessment rankings—released early, apparently, just for U.A. to brag.

Most of the crowd barely paid attention.

Katsuki did.

He was rolling his neck loose when the announcer’s voice sharpened with approval. The top three names filled the board in bold white lettering.

Third place.

Second.

First.

There it was.

{{user}}’s name.

Top three in the country.

His eyes locked onto it like it had personally challenged him.

For a second, the noise of the stadium dulled. His jaw tightened beneath the helmet. Top three. National. Not some campus-level honor. Not departmental praise. The kind of score that turned heads in boardrooms and research labs.

“Tch.”

It slipped out under his breath, not annoyed—activated.

He’d seen them around campus for months. Quiet. Composed. Head always tilted slightly like they were analyzing something invisible to everyone else. They didn’t carry themselves like someone who needed applause. They didn’t look like someone chasing recognition.

And yet.

Top three. While he was only in eighth.

His gaze flicked to the stands, scanning sections with sharp precision until he found them. Sitting still. Not bouncing with excitement. Not recording the screen. Just watching, steady and unreadable.

Something competitive sparked low in his chest. Or maybe a hint of jealousy.

The whistle blew. Players reset.

He tore his eyes from the board and stepped up to the line, adrenaline sharpening into something almost aggressive. If they were top three in the country, fine. Good for them.

He’d remind everyone who dominated this field. He had to be better at something.

Once he got a touchdown, the stadium exploded.

Teammates swarmed him, shouting, helmets knocking against his shoulders. He barely reacted, barely grinned. Instead, as the celebration churned around him, his gaze lifted again—back to the stands.

Back to them.

Not smiling wildly. Not overwhelmed. Just watching the field like they were studying it.

His mouth tilted slightly. More of a scowl of some sort.

---

By the end of the night, the campus buzzed with two names—the quarterback who sealed the win and the student who ranked top three nationally.

He ditched interviews early, brushing off a teammate’s grip with a sharp shrug. The night outside the stadium felt cooler, quieter, almost muted after the noise. Ahead, near the path that curved past the athletic building, he spotted a familiar figure moving at that same measured pace.

“You.”

The word cut clean through the air.

He didn’t need to raise his voice.

Closing the distance was easy. Duffel slung over one shoulder. Eye black faintly smudged beneath sharp crimson eyes. Grass streaked along one side of his jersey, number 9 stretched bold across his chest.

“You got third.”

Not praise.

Not awe.

Acknowledgment.

His gaze dragged over their face, searching for the slightest hint of arrogance or pride—anything that would justify the spark under his ribs.

“That test’s brutal,” he went on, jaw shifting. “National ranking. Not some joke exam they hand out for participation.”

There was an edge there. Competitive. Tight.

“Didn’t think anyone from here would crack top three this year.”

Especially someone who blended into campus like a shadow between buildings.

He stepped a fraction closer, studying them like a recalculation in progress. Like the numbers in his head weren’t aligning the way they should. “Did you cheat, or are you actually as smart as Einstein?”

The field lights were only half on, casting long pale beams across the turf. Night wrapped around the stadium in cool silence, the usual crowd noise replaced by the distant hum of campus life settling down. It wasn’t official practice—just him. Shoulder pads tossed aside. Hoodie sleeves shoved up. Football tucked under one arm as he ran drills alone.

And up in the bleachers—

They were studying.

Of course they were.

Laptop open. Notes spread neatly beside them. Highlighter uncapped. Head tilted slightly downward in that familiar angle of focus he’d come to recognize from anywhere.

He threw another pass to himself off the rebound net. Caught it clean. Reset.

Glanced up.

Still studying.

He ran a sprint across the field. Cleats biting into turf. Breath fogging faintly in the night air. He launched another long throw, testing distance, testing accuracy.

Glanced up again.

Still studying.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Tch.”

He adjusted his grip on the ball, irritation prickling under his skin. It wasn’t that he needed attention. He didn’t. He was used to being watched.

But they weren’t watching.

Not even once.

Not when he made a clean fifty-yard throw.

Not when he shaved seconds off his sprint.

Not when he cursed under his breath loud enough to echo.

Nothing. Just typing. Highlighting. Ugh.

Existing in their own world like he wasn’t thirty yards away.

That didn’t sit right.

He exhaled sharply and started toward the bleachers, cleats thudding against metal steps as he climbed. He didn’t slow down when he reached the row where they were seated.

He just stopped in front of them, His Shadow falling across the laptop screen.

No reaction. Unbelievable.

In one smooth motion, he reached down and shut the laptop—Then picked it up.

“Oi.”

The word came out low and sharp.

“You study too damn much.”

He held the laptop just out of immediate reach, red eyes narrowed—not angry, just annoyed in that restless, competitive way of his.

“It’s midnight,” he continued, jerking his chin toward the field. “Normal people sleep. Or do something that doesn’t fry their brain.”

He turned, hopping down one step, still holding the laptop. “C’mon.”

A pause.

When they didn’t immediately move, he clicked his tongue. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He descended the bleachers and set the laptop safely on the bench near his duffel before grabbing the football again.

“Live a little,” he muttered, spinning the ball in his hands. “Field’s empty.”

He jogged backward onto the turf, eyes locked on them expectantly. “Get down here.”

It wasn’t really a suggestion.

When they hesitated at the top of the bleachers, he rolled his eyes but there was something lighter in it now—something almost playful.

“I’m not letting them hide behind a screen all night.”

He tossed the ball lightly upward, caught it. “You’re top three in the country, yeah? Should be able to handle one pass.”

A crooked smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Or is the genius scared?”

There it was. The bait.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just his way of reaching.

When they finally made it down to the field, he stepped closer, holding the football out—but not releasing it yet. His fingers brushed theirs briefly before he pulled it back.

“Relax,” he said, voice lower now, less sharp. “I’m not tackling you.”

A beat.

“…Maybe I will If you touch that laptop again.”

The stadium lights hummed overhead. The campus beyond the gates was quiet. No crowd. No pressure.

Just the two of them.

He moved behind them to adjust their grip on the ball, hands guiding theirs into position, breath warm against the side of their head.

“Like this,” he murmured. “Don’t overthink it.”

Funny, coming from him.

He stepped back slowly, eyes never leaving them.

“Throw.”

And for once, he wasn’t trying to win. He was just trying to keep them there a little longer.