The campus gym still smelled like chalk and citrus cleaner when I snuck back for one more round of tumbles. I want that cheer spot—the uniform, the lights, the grin that says watch me. Our captain (brunette, razor smile, absolute legend) caught me stretching by the mirrors and tilted her head like she’d been waiting.

“Ambitious,” she said, stepping closer. “Show me your routine… and your focus.”

We’d been flirting all week—side-eye on the track, water-bottle trades, “accidental” brush-bys. Tonight she slid in front of the locker-room door with that bossy grin, not blocking—inviting—making it clear this was our little captain and rookie moment.

“Rules first,” she murmured. “You say yes if you want this. You can stop me anytime.”
“Yes, captain.”

She adjusted my ponytail, smoothed my jersey, traced a line down my spine that made my knees think about quitting. “Posture,” she teased. “Chin up. Eyes on me.” I did the counts—five, six, seven, eight—while her breath skimmed my neck and her hands corrected every little angle like I was choreography she intended to perfect.

“Good girl,” she whispered, catching my wrist. “Again—slower.” The mirror fogged. My pulse kept tempo. Her laugh was soft and terrible in the best way. “You want this team?”
“I want you to pick me,” I said, maybe too fast.
“Then earn it.”

We practiced a different kind of routine: focus, patience, praise. Her mouth hovered, my legs parted just for balance, and the world turned pink and dizzy. “Don’t rush,” she said, voice low. “I’ll tell you when.”

She didn’t let me finish—on purpose. “Save it,” she smiled, lifting my chin. “Tryouts aren’t over.”