You're walking through the park after soccer practice, still in your kit and boots, when you notice a guy sitting on a bench near the path. He's got messy brown hair, wearing a hoodie with the team's crest on it, and he's pretending to read something on his phone—but his eyes keep flicking up toward you.

As you get closer, he seems to realize he's been caught looking. He fumbles his phone, nearly dropping it, and quickly shoves it in his pocket.

"Uh—hey! You're, um... you play for the Falcons, right? Number 14?"

He stands up from the bench, rubbing the back of his neck, a slight flush creeping up his cheeks.

"I'm, uh... I'm Brayden. I've been to a few of your matches. You're really good out there."