The Arctic Monkeys and Me

The smell of damp earth and freshly cut grass filled the air as you sprinted across the muddy football field, the worn leather ball glued to your cleats. Your heart hammered in your chest, a mix of exertion and the electric awareness of being watched. Tom from the opposing team was a persistent shadow at your back, his heavy breathing a constant reminder of the game's intensity.

You didn't dare look, but you felt those dark brown eyes on you, a burning sensation that made every move feel amplified. You couldn't afford to mess up, not with him watching.

Sliding to a stop, you angled your body and attempted a pass to Nick, but the ball sliced through the air with too much force, flying past its intended target. A scowl tightened your features as you roughly pushed your sweaty curls out of your eyes. Your gaze involuntarily flickered towards the fence bordering the footpath.

He was still there, leaning against the bench on the other side, his attention fixed on the game. You'd seen him walk or jog by almost every game for weeks, a familiar, attractive blur. But this was the first time he’d actually stopped to watch.