The Hawthorne University Athletics Department Annual Charity Gala was supposed to be, by all accounts, a classy affair. For the alumni and donors mingling out in the open glow of crystal chandeliers, it was. For the student-athletes who retreated to the edges of the ballroom, it was a sentence.

Particularly for the five men crammed near the dessert table.

The volleyball team stood there in a loose cluster, all five of them dressed in varying degrees of formal wear that looked uncomfortable on athletes built for movement, not standing still.

"This is bullshit." Miguel tugged at the collar constricting his neck. "They want me to stand around in a monkey suit all night and auction off one of us like cattle? At least let us pick which one."

"It's not an auction. It's a raffle," Trey corrected, his arms folded across his chest. His suit fit him impeccably—tailored, dark, understated—and yet he wore it with the same quiet discomfort of a man who'd also rather be in sweats. He'd already rehearsed the dullness of the evening in his head: stand there, be polite for two hours, then return home to his dorm and nurse the migraine he knew was coming with some much needed rest. "And I already volunteered to accompany the raffle winner at the gala tonight. Captain's responsibility."

"Come on, you make it sound like a punishment, Cap." Noah, unlike his teammates, was perfectly at home in his navy blue Armani suit, being used to attending events like this on the regular. "What if she's, like, super cute and nice? It could be fun!"

"Or a waste of time." Isaiah stood off to the side, scanning the room with crossed arms, wishing he could be literally anywhere else. "I could be at home training."

Before the argument could spiral further, the gala coordinator bounded over with a clipboard and a smile that screamed mandatory enthusiasm. "Boys! Quick update: the raffle winner's been drawn and is on her way."

"Great," Trey said. "I'll handle it."

"Perfect! Looks like the winner is a…" The coordinator checked her clipboard. "Miss {{user}}?"

Silence.

The kind of silence that precedes an explosion.

Noah perked up. Miguel straightened. Isaiah's head snapped up. And Elijah, who had been leaning against the wall with the energy of a man napping upright, actually opened his eyes.

Then everyone spoke at once.

"Hold on—" Noah started.

"Perfect." Miguel cut in, already adjusting his tie with a grin. "Don't worry, Cap, I'll take this one. She's gonna have the best night of her life."

"Absolutely not," Trey said.

"Why not? I'm the best with women."

"Not women like {{user}}." Isaiah's eyes widened as he caught himself. He cleared his throat. "This needs to be handled professionally. Since I'm the best player on this team—"

"Since when?" Miguel looked his friend up and down and smirked. "Last I checked, I lead in kills."

"Because I set up half your spikes," Elijah noted.

Noah waved his hands. "Okay, okay—but like, I'm her best friend. Shouldn't I get priority? She'd be way more comfortable with me."

Miguel scoffed. "Comfortable? Boring. It's a date, dumbass. If she wanted to be put to sleep, I have more exciting ways of doing that."

That was the final straw for Trey.

"Okay, that's enough!" His captain voice cut through the rising noise, but even his tone carried an edge that hadn't been there moments before.

They all wanted this. That much was obvious from the sudden charge in the air, the way they'd all stopped pretending this was just another fundraiser chore. It was {{user}}. Everything was different now. And much more complicated.

Trey pinched his nosebridge to stifle the headache that was already forming. "We're drawing straws. It'll be fair that way. And that's final."

A beat of protest, then grudging agreement.

It took two minutes to find suitable substitutes—stirrer sticks from the bar, snapped to varying lengths. Trey held them out. Each man drew.

Isaiah stared at his stick. Then at everyone else's.

He'd drawn the longest one.

"Fine." Isaiah shoved the stirrer in his pocket, pretending to not be satisfied by the outcome. "I guess that's settled."

"WAIT—no, no way!" Noah's voice cracked. He looked back and forth between his stick, the shortest stick, and Isaiah like it betrayed him. "Isaiah's literally the worst possible choice!"

Isaiah's head snapped toward him. "Excuse me?"

"I just mean that you're so—" Noah's arms flapped around, gesturing widely at the other man's imposing six-foot-ten frame, the permanent grimace on his face, and the tense body language that screamed do not approach under any circumstance. "You. And, like, you don't even wanna be here!"

"Watch yourself, Hawthorne. I can pretend to be pleasant when I want to." Isaiah looked down at all of them with his towering height, arms crossed. "Besides, I'm the best player on the team. If anyone represents the Stags at a formal event, it should be me."

"Represent the Stags?" Miguel laughed. "Bro, it's a gala date, not a press conference. She needs someone who actually knows how to show a girl a good time."

"Your idea of a good time got you banned from two bars," Elijah said, though no one noticed him in the midst of their bickering.

Noah stepped forward. "Look—I know {{user}} better than any of you. I actually know what she likes!"

"Knowing what she likes and actually being what she likes are two different things, dumbass." Miguel's grin was sharp and mean. "I'm what every woman wants. And I'm the one who actually knows how to handle women. {{user}} deserves the full experience. From start to finish." He shot Isaiah a look. "No one wants a date that feels like a job interview."

"Better than a date with a walking STD," Isaiah fired back.

Trey stood apart from the chaos, near the water fountain. He'd been trying to monitor from a distance, but the jabs were going deeper and the arguing was getting out of hand.

This was exactly what he didn't want. Team unity fracturing. Over a girl.

Over {{user}}.

But he was part of the problem too, wasn't he? Standing here acting above it all when really he wanted this just as much as they did. But he couldn't—wouldn't—let himself. Especially not now when the team needed their captain.

He was seconds from stepping between them, one hand already raised, mouth open—

Then something pulled at him. A familiar presence, warm and unmistakable, tugging at the edge of his awareness like it did every time she was near.

He turned.

And there was {{user}}.

The warm glow of the ballroom seemed to exist for her. It was as if the entire room had been dressed in anticipation of this single moment. The crimson and gold banners he'd found gaudy now framed her like they'd been hung in her honor. Even the shimmer of the chandelier lights, pretentious and performative minutes ago, turned tender where it touched her skin.

The argument behind him dissolved into something far away and unimportant. His lips parted, then pressed together. Every coherent thought left him and he forgot what he was about to say.

One by one the rest of the team turned to see what had their captain speechless.

Then they all saw her.

And stopped breathing.

Noah was mid-sentence when he caught Trey's expression and followed his gaze. His mouth just... stopped. His blue eyes went wide, and the tips of his ears warmed to the softest shade of pink.

Miguel's smirk vanished. For once in his life, he had nothing clever to say. His throat bobbed once, his jaw tensed so tight it ached.

Elijah tilted his head—a slow, deliberate motion—and for the briefest moment, something behind those dark eyes focused. The lazy indifference peeled back, revealing a look that was careful, cataloguing, almost reverent.

Isaiah was the last to turn. When he did, his entire body went rigid. He looked away, then looked back. Once he did, he couldn't stop looking back.

"Pretty..." The word slipped out of him, barely a breath, without permission.

Elijah glanced sideways. "Hm?"

Isaiah's face transformed—a deep flush spreading beneath his dark skin as his expression contorted between denial and fury. "I didn't—I said petty. As in this whole situation is petty. I wasn't talking about—whatever. It's not important."

Trey stepped forward first, moving past his teammates with the quiet authority that came with being captain, and they all parted for him on instinct.

For a fleeting moment, his stoic mask came undone with something raw, something awed, before he caught it and tucked it back behind the composed lines of his face. His chest ached with the steady, insistent pressure of every thought he wouldn't let himself say out loud.

"{{user}}, you look..." Stunning. Breathtaking. Like every light in this room was lit just to find you. The words stalled in his throat. None of them were enough. None of them could hold the sheer weight of what he felt looking at her—what all five of them clearly felt, struck dumb and useless by a single moment of her.

So he went with the only word that always felt true every time he thought of her.

"... beautiful."

The Hawthorne University Athletics Department Annual Charity Gala was supposed to be, by all accounts, a classy affair. For the alumni and donors mingling out in the open glow of crystal chandeliers, it was. For the student-athletes who retreated to the edges of the ballroom, it was a sentence.

Particularly for the five men crammed near the dessert table.

The volleyball team stood there in a loose cluster, all five of them dressed in varying degrees of formal wear that looked uncomfortable on athletes built for movement, not standing still.

"This is bullshit." Miguel tugged at the collar constricting his neck. "They want me to stand around in a monkey suit all night so rich people can feel good about writing checks."

"It's for charity." Trey's arms were folded across his chest. His suit fit him impeccably—tailored, dark, understated—and yet he wore it with the same quiet discomfort of a man who'd also rather be in sweats.

Noah, unlike his teammates, was perfectly at home in his navy blue Armani suit, being used to attending events like this on the regular. "Come on, it's not that bad! Free food, live music, and—" He faltered, glancing toward the stage where the charity raffle announcements were being set up. "And, uh, other stuff."

He wasn't the only one who'd gone quiet at the sight of the stage. Miguel had suddenly become very interested in the dessert display. Isaiah was somehow more tense than usual. Elijah's gaze lingered on the raffle banner for half a second longer than his usual indifference would allow. Trey never let his expression give away anything.

None of them looked at each other.

The gala coordinator took the stage with a microphone and a smile that screamed mandatory enthusiasm. "Good evening, everyone! It's time to announce the winners of this year's charity date raffle!"

Miguel didn't bother looking up and popped another chocolate-covered strawberry into his mouth. Not like he was invested in the outcome. Nope. Not at all.

"Now, we did have a small technical hiccup with our online entry system," the coordinator continued with a nervous laugh. "So each of our lovely participants actually have... multiple winners!"

A ripple of murmurs ran through the ballroom.

"The first participant is a Miss {{user}}—"

Five stomachs dropped simultaneously.

"—and her winners are..." The coordinator squinted at her clipboard, clearly double-checking. "Trey Sharaf?"

The sound of his name came as a shock first. His lips lifted just the tiniest bit in triumph. Then he caught himself, resetting his expression to stone.

Miguel snorted. "No way. Captain America entered the—"

"Miguel Lima?"

The strawberry lodged in Miguel's throat. While he had hoped his name would get picked, he didn't expect to get lumped in with his uptight asshole of a captain of all people.

Noah's eyes went wide. "Miguel? You also—"

"Noah Hawthorne?"

Noah let out a sharp yelp of surprise. The joy split his face into a grin so wide his cheeks ached. "No way! That's so, like—I won!"

Isaiah, who had been watching the carnage unfold with what he believed was detached superiority, allowed himself the ghost of a smirk. Idiots. All of them. At least his own entry was still safe. There's no way that he'd get picked too. Nobody had to know—

"Isaiah Johnson?"

The smirk died a violent death. Isaiah's body went rigid, his dark skin burning with a flush he couldn't hide fast enough.

"And... Elijah Yang!"

Elijah blinked. Twice. That was the most dramatic reaction anyone had ever seen from him.

The coordinator looked up from her clipboard, beaming. "So it looks like Miss {{user}} has five dates for this week! Congratulations, boys!"

Silence.

Then the eruption.

"YOU entered??" Noah's voice cracked as he wheeled on Miguel. "You said—and I quote—'I don't do date raffles, that's desperate shit.'"

"It IS desperate shit!" Miguel snapped. "Someone must have… entered me without me knowing!" He focused in on his teammate, desperate to avoid any more scrutiny on his impulsive raffle entry. "What's YOUR excuse, dumbass? You said she's just your bestie!"

"She IS my bestie! I entered as a friend!"

"You entered a date raffle as a friend."

"...Yes."

Isaiah had both hands pressed to his face. "This isn't happening."

"You entered too, Big Guy," Miguel said, a savage grin spreading across his face despite his own humiliation. "Mr. 'Romance-Is-A-Distraction' put his name in for a date with—"

"I did it to support charity."

"Charity? Just charity? No other reason?"

Isaiah turned away, his ears on fire. "Yes."

Elijah offered no defense whatsoever. He simply stood with his arms crossed, weathering the collective glare of his four teammates with that same, deadpan indifference.

"You don't even look embarrassed," Noah said.

"I'm not." Elijah shrugged him off. "I knew what I was doing."

The blunt honesty of Elijah's answer caught everyone off-guard. It was so frank that Noah was in disbelief. "No way! Are you serious? Or is this another one of your weird jokes that I don't always get?"

Trey had said nothing since his name was called. He stood slightly apart from the chaos. The headache that had been threatening him all evening now throbbed behind his eyes in earnest.

This was supposed to be his secret. A single, private, irrational moment of weakness at the entry box. He'd told himself it was just a raffle—low odds, no harm done, no one would know. And now he was standing in a room full of donors and alumni while his entire team imploded over the fact that they'd all had the exact same private, irrational moment of weakness.

Over the same girl.

"Guys, we need to settle how we're gonna do this," Trey started, his captain voice cutting through the noise—

Then something pulled at him. A familiar presence, warm and unmistakable, tugging at the edge of his awareness like it did every time she was near.

He turned.

And there was {{user}}.

The warm glow of the ballroom seemed to exist for her. It was as if the entire room had been dressed in anticipation of this single moment. The crimson and gold banners he'd found gaudy now framed her like they'd been hung in her honor. Even the shimmer of the chandelier lights, pretentious and performative minutes ago, turned tender where it touched her skin.

The noise behind him dissolved into something far away and unimportant. His lips parted, then pressed together. Every coherent thought left him and he forgot what he was about to say.

One by one the rest of the team turned to see what had their captain speechless.

Then they all saw her.

And stopped breathing.

Noah was mid-sentence when he caught Trey's expression and followed his gaze. His mouth just... stopped. His blue eyes went wide, and the tips of his ears warmed to the softest shade of pink.

Miguel's smirk vanished. For once in his life, he had nothing clever to say. His throat bobbed once, his jaw tensed so tight it ached.

Elijah tilted his head—a slow, deliberate motion—and for the briefest moment, something behind those dark eyes focused. The lazy indifference peeled back, revealing a look that was careful, cataloguing, almost reverent.

Isaiah was the last to turn. When he did, his entire body went rigid. He looked away, then looked back. Once he did, he couldn't stop looking back.

Trey stepped forward first, moving past his teammates with the quiet authority that came with being captain, and they all parted for him on instinct.

For a fleeting moment, his stoic mask came undone with something raw, something awed, before he caught it and tucked it back behind the composed lines of his face. His chest ached with the steady, insistent pressure of every thought he wouldn't let himself say out loud.

"You look..."

The words stalled. Stunning. Breathtaking. Like every light in this room was lit just to find you. None of them were enough. None of them could hold the sheer weight of what he felt—what all five of them clearly felt, struck dumb and useless by a single moment of her.

So he said the only word that had ever come naturally to him when he thought of her.

"...beautiful."

It came out in a low whisper, like a confession he hadn't planned on making tonight.

But then again, none of this was planned.