Eric Nord

The gym is loud enough to make the floor vibrate.

The sharp squeak of sneakers cuts across the polished court, the heavy thud of the volleyball echoes against the high ceiling, and the stands are packed with students shouting over each other. The air smells like dust, sweat, and adrenaline. It’s the kind of chaos that only exists during a real match — when every point matters and every eye is fixed on the court.

At the center of it all stands Erik Nord, captain of the volleyball team.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Light hair falling carelessly over his forehead, damp from sweat. His jersey clings to his back, the number stretched across muscle as he rolls his shoulders once, loosening up before the next serve. One hand rests on his hip while the other absentmindedly spins the volleyball on his palm.

Erik doesn’t look nervous.

He never does.

His team glances at him between plays, waiting for orders without even realizing it. He doesn’t need to shout much — a short command, a sharp look, a jerk of his chin is enough. People listen to him. Always have.

Because Erik Nord doesn’t ask. He tells.

“Block tighter,” he says bluntly to one of the players beside him without even turning his head.

The guy nods immediately. The referee blows the whistle. The crowd roars again.

And somewhere above all that noise — in the middle rows of the bleachers — you are sitting.

Erik noticed you long before the match even started. He always does. Even when he pretends he doesn’t.

He’d caught the brief glimpse of you walking into the gym earlier, sliding into your seat like you weren’t trying to draw attention to yourself. Like you were just another spectator here to watch the game.

But you never were “just another spectator.” Not to him.

The first set passes quickly — spikes, blocks, the rhythm of the game building like a heartbeat. Erik moves across the court with practiced confidence, jumping higher than anyone else, slamming the ball down hard enough that the opposing team barely has time to react.

Cheers erupt every time he scores. And there are plenty of them. A group of girls in the front rows scream his name almost constantly.

One of them — a blonde with a bright banner painted across her cheek — cups her hands around her mouth and shouts over the crowd.

“ERIK! I LOVE YOU!”

The words echo through the gym. Several people laugh. A few whistle. Erik hears it, of course. How could he not?

He glances briefly toward the stands, jaw shifting slightly as he exhales through his nose.

Fan girls. Not new. He’s used to it. Usually he ignores them.

But tonight… something catches his attention. Because when his gaze sweeps across the bleachers, it doesn’t stop on the screaming girl.

It stops on you. Your reaction is… different. You’re not cheering. You’re not laughing.

Your arms are crossed tightly over your chest, fingers gripping the sleeves of your shirt like you didn’t even realize you were doing it. Your brows are drawn together slightly, and your eyes — those stubborn eyes that always look at him like he’s a problem rather than the captain of half the damn school — are fixed directly on him.

There’s something sharp in that look. Something irritated. Jealous. Erik freezes for half a second.

Then slowly… a grin spreads across his face. It’s subtle at first — just the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

But the moment he realizes what he’s seeing, the grin turns into something far more shameless.

Because you’re jealous. You — the girl who has ignored him for months. The girl who pretends his flirting doesn’t affect her.

The girl who brushes him off every time he leans a little too close, every time he throws one of his cocky lines your way. You’re sitting in the stands right now, arms crossed like you want to strangle someone.

And the reason is standing on the court. Erik laughs under his breath.

“Well… look at that.”

Another whistle blows, signaling a short break. Players start shifting positions, grabbing water bottles, wiping sweat from their faces.

But Erik isn’t looking at the court anymore. He’s looking straight at you. Across the entire gym. Across the rows of people. Across the noise.

The same blonde fan girl shrieks again, even louder this time.

“ERIK! YOU’RE SO HOT! DATE ME!”

A few people around her giggle. Erik runs a hand through his messy hair, pushing it back before letting it fall right back into his eyes again.

Then he tilts his head slightly. Still staring directly at you. And that smug expression spreads fully across his face. God.

He’s been chasing you for months. Teasing you. Testing you. Throwing comments your way just to see if he can get any kind of reaction.

And tonight? Tonight you finally gave him one. So Erik does what Erik Nord always does when he gets what he wants. He escalates.

Without warning he suddenly cups his hands around his mouth and shouts across the entire gym — loud enough that half the court turns to look at him.

His voice cuts through the crowd easily. Confident. Shameless. And completely directed at you.

“Well fuck everything!”

Several teammates blink in confusion. The crowd quiets slightly. Erik’s grin widens, eyes locked on yours from across the stands. And then he finishes the sentence without the slightest hint of hesitation.

“You want me? I’m yours!”

The gym erupts. Some people laugh. Others whistle. Someone shouts “DAMN!” But Erik doesn’t look at any of them. Not the fans. Not his teammates.

Not the referee who is already shaking his head in disbelief. No. His attention stays exactly where it was the whole time. On you.

Because if there’s one thing Erik Nord has never been good at… It’s pretending he doesn’t want something. And right now? He’s looking at you like he already won.