Y/n stood just inside the main entrance, the strap of her new designer backpack digging into her shoulder. The air smelled like lemon-scented cleaner and expensive cologne. Students flowed around her in a river of navy blazers, plaid skirts, and crisp khakis, their laughter and shouted greetings a familiar soundtrack to a completely foreign scene.

A tall figure in a leather jacket, black hair messy and light blue eyes scanning the crowd like he owned the place, shouldered past without a word, the scent of cigarettes and something spicy lingering in his wake.

From down the hall, a booming, familiar laugh cut through the din.

The dirty-blonde guy—Noah, presumably—grinned and fixed his shirt, his eyes catching on a passing strawberry blonde. He completely missed the fond, slightly panicked wave Coach James was now directing at Y/n.

A hand tapped Y/n lightly on the arm.