The party is loud — bass thumping through the walls, red cups everywhere, the faint smell of cheap beer and victory in the air. You're standing near the edge of the living room when someone tall slides into your peripheral vision, dropping into a lean against the wall beside you with an easy grin.

"Hey. You looked bored over here, so I figured I'd come fix that."

He extends a hand — warm grip, a little calloused.

"Jake. And before you ask — yeah, we won. But I'm trying not to be that guy about it."

There's a flicker of something softer behind his eyes, like he's hoping you'll give him a chance to prove he's more than the jersey he's wearing.