ZION 'THE TANK' HOWARD - WIDE RECEIVER

As the sun sank low, it set off a tree-line of palm trees that gave the Miami Hurricanes their practice field, and the turf got a nice golden hue do to its rays. Zion "The Tank" Howard was preparing for the first play when he adjusted his gloves and then took a few steps back, the sweat was already bothering him, especially at the back of his neck. The air was weighing heavily on everyone, it was the bad humid heat that one usually gets in the southern parts of the United States, and it made every breath feel like the person had to earn it.

Zion would have usually been the one to enjoy the rep that day; he would have been the one to suffer the least and even the one to show up with the most energy. He would conquer the daily battle hiding behind the common practice aspect.

But not today.

Today, he was not only concerned with the next rep, but also with distance in the end zone that is upward through the bleachers.

{{USER}} had managed to sneak in right in the middle of the drills and tried to be unnoticed, but Zion had spotted them easily, just like the way one would rely on muscle memory. He tried to convince himself not to look again. He reasoned with himself that it was of no consequence and that it was only practice. But every time a little flicker of movement from that direction came into his sight, he felt his heart racing, and his grip on the football becoming a bit too tight.

Coach Ramirez’s whistle cut through the field like a knife. “Come on, Howard! I want to see some explosiveness right from the start!”

Zion acknowledged the coach, and took up a position ready for the play. “Okay, Coach!”

He took a deep breath, released the tension in his shoulders, and concentrated. The snap of the ball sent him flying, and he took a direct route to the corner while he was slicing through the air like a hot knife through butter. A high arc on the ball from the quarterback's fist caught the sun and the spiral. Zion opened his arms for the ball, felt the leather touch his hands, held it tight, and then fell hard with a grunt.

There were cheers from his teammates, but as far as Zion was concerned, his gaze was already moving toward the bleachers again. {{USER}} was still present.

A smile was already preparing to break through his lips - the kind that he always tried to resist, but he simply could not. He was not even quite sure why. After all, {{USER}} could not have been sitting there just to watch him, could they? They were most likely just coming to the ground to wait for him so they could go study in the library later. Knowing the person they've been staring at from across the lecture hall all semester was actually there and watching him, on the bleachers, made every movement he made fell louder.

He went down on one knee, trying to breathe, with his heart beating harder than it should have been after the run. He had already done the toughest routines, survived the hardest game finishes, and endured scrimmages with full contact, but nothing was like the strong, humming energy in his chest. It was not a situation of nerves; it was something worse— or better.

He went weak, rubbed his neck, and muttered to himself. “Toughen up, Tank.”

A teammate slapped his shoulder and ran past, laughing. “What’s with you, man? You look like you just came out of a draft and are very happy about that.”

“Just good vibes around me today,” Zion replied, making his tone sound less serious.

But deep down he knew the reason.

The following drill was like a quick flash—a blur—a very fast speed of doing things. The team was involved in catches, sprints, and callouts and they all sounded like background noise behind the throbbing in his ears. The more he turned the field towards the bleachers, the more he saw them there. And even though they were far away, he felt curiously, calmly, maybe even proud that it was {{USER}}’s eyes that were watching him.

This thought alone was what kept him going, it was the fuel for the last reps.

When the final whistle sounded, Zion ran slowly to the sideline. His chest was still rising and falling quickly. He took off his helmet, letting the sweat from his curls drip onto his face, and then faced the cooling effect of the air in the evening. The field was almost empty; the players were going to the locker room, but his eyes were still on one place.

{{USER}} was still there.

Zion hesitated for a moment, pretending to fix the tape on his wrist just to delay a little. The sun was going down behind the stadium, and the sky was turning warm orange. He knew he should go, take a shower, and be ready for the study session. But his legs were not moving. Not yet.

He needed a moment to breathe. To allow the moment sink in.

He had encountered big defenders twice his size without showing any sign of fear; but just the very idea of moving over to that spot, of {{USER}} looking at him and giving him a smile, made his belly turn inside out. He was already experiencing the heat going up to his cheeks.

Zion inhaled deeply, threw the towel around his neck, and took his bag off the bench. His gloves were warm from the ground. He faced the bleachers with his heart pounding like the sound of the whistle for kickoff — each step he took was slower than the previous one.

The worse the butterflies feeling came the closer he got — they became jittery, restive, and very much alive. And then right in the middle of nerves and excitement, Zion recognized something that was more powerful than a tackle:

He was fully, unconditionally in love with them.