Everyone on campus called him Aiden Carter, but they said it like a title. Not a name.
The Sports God.
The undefeated quarterback.
The boy who made every victory look like divine intervention.
And then there was me, Maya, the team’s hydration assistant. My job was to refill bottles and dodge thrown towels. We existed in the same world, but on completely different planes.
Or so I thought.
The first time he spoke to me, it was 2 a.m. The locker room was empty, except for the hum of the vending machine and the faint smell of turf.
He sat on the bench, headphones around his neck, unwrapping tape from his wrists. His shirt was off, and his skin glistened with sweat.
“You’re still here?” he asked.
I nearly dropped my clipboard. “So are you.”
He smiled, the kind that could ruin someone’s GPA. “You good at keeping secrets?”
I crossed my arms. “Depends who’s asking.”
He looked down, voice softer now. “Don’t tell anyone I can’t sleep before games.”
For a second, I saw it. The boy under the legend.
“Your secret’s safe,” I said.
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
He smirked. “Then maybe I’ll tell you another one someday.”
From that night on, he kept showing up.
Behind the bleachers after practice. In the cafeteria line, pretending he didn’t know I was there. Outside the bus before away games, waiting like he’d been looking for me all along.
“You always appear out of nowhere,” I said one day.
“Maybe I’m haunting you,” he teased
“Pretty sure ghosts don’t smell like mint and sweat.
He grinned. “You noticed my scent. That’s dangerous.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Or maybe you just like impossible things.”
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
The team had rules. The coach had eyes everywhere. But somehow, between stolen glances and after-practice conversations, we slipped past every line.
One night, after a big win, he found me on the field. The stadium lights were still on, and his jersey clung to him, streaked with grass and glory.
“You should be at the party,” I said.
“I hate parties.”
“Then what do you like?”
He looked at me for a long time. “You.”
It hit like a punch. No noise. No crowd. Just truth.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
He took a step closer. “You make me forget I’m supposed to be perfect.”
I swallowed hard. “Maybe I don’t want perfect.”
He smiled, faint but real. “Then you’re the only one.”
After that, it became our thing.
He’d text me a single word: Field. I’d sneak out, hoodie up, shoes muddy, and find him lying on the fifty-yard line staring at the stars.
“Do you ever get tired of people worshipping you?” I asked once.
He laughed quietly. “They don’t worship me. They worship the version of me they made up.”
“And what version is that?”
“The one that doesn’t bleed. The one that doesn’t get scared.”
I turned to him. “What scares you?
He hesitated. “Losing everything. And you.”
“You can’t lose me,” I said softly.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Maya.”
I looked at him. Really looked. The golden boy, the champion, the so-called god — and all I saw was a boy trying not to break.
The night before the championship, he couldn’t sleep again. I found him in the gym, sitting in the dark.
“Hey,” I whispered.
He didn’t look up. “They say if I win tomorrow, I’ll go first-round draft.”
“That’s amazing.”
He finally met my eyes. “Then why does it feel like I’m losing something?”
I sat beside him, close enough to hear his breath hitch.
“You’re not losing,” I said. “You’re growing.”
He shook his head. “You don’t get it. I’m not allowed to feel small. Not allowed to mess up. Not allowed to… love you.”
My throat tightened. “Who said you’re not allowed?”
“Everyone.”
We didn’t speak after that. We didn’t have to.
He leaned in, and when our lips met, it felt like exhaling after holding my breath for years.
The next day, he won the championship. Of course he did. He always did.
But when the crowd rushed the field, when everyone screamed his name, he didn’t look happy. He looked… lost.
He disappeared before the interviews, and when I went to find him, all I found was a folded note in my locker.
Maya,
You were never a secret. But you were the only thing I wanted to protect.
I can’t take you into the world I’m walking into. It eats people like you alive.
Don’t wait for me.
Aiden
I didn’t cry until I heard his name announced on TV that night.
First-round draft.
The stadium roared. Reporters swarmed.
He was everything they wanted him to be.
But when he scored his first touchdown, I saw it — a small, defiant act in the middle of all that chaos.
He kissed his wrist.
Right where my bracelet used to be.
I graduated a year later. Moved cities. Tried to forget.
But sometimes, when I walk past a sports bar and hear his name echo from the TV, I stop. Just for a second.
He still wins. He still smiles for the cameras.
But I swear, when he looks up after a victory, he’s not looking at the crowd.
He’s looking for me.
And maybe that’s enough.
