You were sitting at the very top row, alone, knees drawn up, watching the practice below.

Town tradition. Senior year hadn't even started, but Friday night lights meant everyone showed up. Families. Friends. Pack.

Your parents were somewhere in the crowd below. Your phone buzzed in your pocket—your mom, probably, asking if you'd eaten the sandwich she packed.

You ignored it.

Down on the field, the quarterback took the snap, pivoted, and launched the ball in a clean spiral. It sailed forty yards, straight into the hands of a runner who caught it without breaking stride.

Number twelve. Xavier.

The alpha’s son moved like he owned the earth under his cleats. Broad shoulders, dark hair damp with sweat, jaw set in concentration. Even from here, you could see the flash of green eyes when he looked up—

Right at the bleachers.

Right at you.

Just for a second.

Then his teammate Samuel clapped him on the shoulder, and he looked away, jogging back to the huddle.

To your left, a group of girls giggled. One of them—Ruby—tossed her blonde hair, watching Xavier with a smirk that said she had claims.

Tomorrow, you turned eighteen.