Frank's POV
Before we got off the plane, William was already helping his teammates retrieve their luggage with that effortless, gentlemanly ease of his.
I didn't thank him. Just lowered my head, hiding my lips behind my collar, while one thought kept spinning in my head: Thank God I didn't agree to stay at his place. Thank God.
Around the baggage carousel, the restless players started horsing around again.
Two guys began chasing each other like overgrown kids playing tag, and somehow the chaos rolled all the way to where I was standing.
Dylan—a broad-shouldered linebacker—almost barreled into me. He looked up and paused.
"Hey, aren't you that gentlemanly reporter?"
"Hi," I smiled politely, waving a hand. "Just an intern with the campus paper."
"Still sounds impressive to me," Dylan grinned, slinging an arm around Gary's shoulder. "There'll be a van coming to take us back to ST. Want a ride?"
No one knew about me and William.
And besides that unspoken secret, I didn't really know anyone else on the team. I'd only been to two interviews.
So I shook my head. "Thanks, but I'm good."
"Don't be shy, it's on the way—"
Dylan was about to press the issue, but Gary nudged him sharply.
"Cut it out. William's pissed."
Dylan turned, and sure enough, William stood off to the side, face dark, gaze locked on us.
"Wait, what? Why would he be mad?"
Gary smacked Dylan's shoulder. "Dude. You do remember they had that falling out, right? Last semester?"
"Oh, crap. Right! That night… William was furious. Man, that face still gives me chills."
As soon as he said it, all three of us fell silent. The memory must've hit them hard—awkward tension flooded the air.
Dylan leaned closer to Gary, voice lowered. "But it was just a misunderstanding, wasn't it? This guy—he didn't even like William, right?"
Gary gave him a long look. "You just said the problem."
If you thought a guy liked you, and then it turned out he didn't feel anything at all… would you really be happy having that shoved in your face again? Rejected, humiliated?
"Hell no," Dylan muttered. "I'd want him as far away from me as possible."
"Exactly. And whatever the hell's been going on with William this summer… well, he hasn't exactly been sunshine and rainbows since training camp started. More like… permanently pissed-off, unsatisfied beast mode."
Gary wasn't joking now. He genuinely didn't want his friend to get caught in the crossfire.
"Look, I'm telling you—he's been ready to explode over anything. Especially these past few days."
Dylan wisely backed off, putting some distance between us.
"Forget I said anything. None of us want to mess with him, seriously."
They were all avoiding him now.
"Falling out"—such a clean little phrase. Neat. Accurate. Painfully so.
That was when I saw the message on my phone, just sent by William:
[I parked right outside. Don't go anywhere. I'll take you back.]
I typed a quick reply:
[Back to school?]
Two minutes passed. Then came his response:
[Before that... why don't you come rest at my place for a bit?]
Rest?
For how long? Two weeks?
I stared at the screen, breath caught somewhere between a scoff and a sigh.
Me and William.
Two people no one would ever think to put in the same sentence.
Different worlds. Different rules.
So how the hell did we end up like this?
It was late January—the dead of winter.
The lingering cold front in M-state meant going outside required full armor: scarves, gloves, thick coats.
But none of that mattered on ST University's football field, where thousands had gathered under the blazing afternoon sun to welcome back the newly crowned national champions.
Here, the word "winter" didn't exist. The crowd's energy burned hotter than anything the weather could throw at us.
"My ears are dying," Nancy yelled, barely audible over the roar.
She turned to me, a mix of apology and regret flashing in her eyes.
"Frank, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you to something this loud. You hate crowds like this."
I was standing beside her on the second-floor bleachers, watching her mouth move without catching a single word.
"Nancy, what—?"
"Forget it!" She shook her head. "Not worth yelling over. Just wait a bit—it should calm down once the players come out."
But instead of calming down, the crowd surged even louder when the host began counting down.
"Three—two—one—!"
A thunderstorm of cheers erupted. And finally, the White Wolves stepped onto the field.
A massive puff of white smoke burst from the player tunnel, and then came the players—towering figures in blue-and-white uniforms, barreling through like beasts finally released from their cages.
The whole stadium shook.
They roared as they ran, and somehow, the audience's cheers felt small in comparison.
It wasn't just spectacle—it was a presence. This was the kind of pressure only football could generate. The kind of dominance only champions could claim.
Unlike other sports, college football teams were massive. Offense, defense, special teams—each unit had its own rotation. Some schools had over a hundred players, all fighting for a single position.
Even athletes from other sports sometimes trained for football first, only to be weeded out.
I'd watched the White Wolves play before. But this—this victory celebration—was something else.
The noise, the spectacle, the sheer intensity of it all made my skin prickle.
So this was what being number one in the country felt like.
I was ready to sit down, half-dazed from the spectacle, when Nancy suddenly grabbed my arm.
"Frank—look," she whispered. "You don't notice anything missing?"
I blinked. There were already so many people on the field. At least a hundred.
Before I could respond, the doors at the tunnel opened again.
And he walked out.
Alone.
Tall, commanding, graceful even in his stride—his very appearance seemed to dim the spotlight on everyone else.
Of course the protagonist would be the last to arrive.
As soon as the crowd recognized him, the noise soared to another level—like an arena erupting into a chant that had been waiting all day.
"William! William! William!"
Say whatever you want. Ask who the real MVP was. Or who the media loved most.
Better yet—go on the internet right now and search the name of the most talked-about college athlete this year.
There would be no second place.
William Hank.
Unquestionable strength. Undeniable leadership.
The anchor of the White Wolves.
And, of course, that face—that body—didn't exactly hurt his popularity.
A campus heartthrob? Please. That title barely scratched the surface.
William was M-state's golden boy. Everyone's favorite.
Even my roommate Nataly, who didn't care about sports, turned into a rabid fan whenever William's highlight reels dropped.
She'd forced me to watch several.
"It's not just football," she'd say, eyes glued to the screen. "It's art. Look at those abs. Frank, don't you want to touch them?"
When I laughed, she didn't even blush.
"Don't act like you wouldn't. No one's immune."
To be fair, she had a point. William wasn't just fit, he was balanced.
Not grotesquely built like a bodybuilder—more like sculpted with purpose. Lean muscle. Tight core. Perfect lines.
And today, standing under the stadium lights without a helmet, golden hair tousled by the wind, he looked maddeningly put-together. Effortless. Charismatic. Real.
But my mind wasn't on today.
It went to that video.
Summer training camp.
He'd finished practice, drenched in sweat, walking off the field shirtless.
He grabbed a bottle of water—everyone thought he was going to drink it.
But he tilted it overhead instead.
Let it spill.
Water poured down his face, neck, chest—trickling over high cheekbones, along the sharp edge of his jaw, down his throat.
His black T-shirt stuck to him, highlighting every ridge of his torso.
Hard.
Defined.
Beautiful.
Nataly had clutched my arm during that clip, nearly screaming.
We watched it in late October, but it felt like summer again—our faces flushed, hearts pounding.
Even now, I felt heat creeping up my neck just remembering it.
God.
I shook my head, trying to clear the image.
No wet shirt. No training video.
Just William.
Just him.
And the stadium screen now replaying his best plays from the championship game.
His name echoed in the air like a spell.
And I… I just stood there.
Caught in it.