cwboyss

[cwboyss]

i’ll write the third chapter…. in a bit..!

[cwboyss]

WEST OF HERE~🧹

||UNIVERSITY AU|| ABBY X READER ||

ch.2

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You hadn’t planned on doing this.

You really hadn’t.

But curiosity had a way of sinking its teeth into you and refusing to let go.

A few days after first seeing her on the sidelines, you were still wondering who the hell that girl actually was — the one who played like teamwork was just a solo act with extra background noise.

The only thing you really remembered about her was that she was huge, and that people called her “Anderson” like it was her first, last, and middle name all rolled into one.

Like she didn’t even have an actual identity under the grim, military-grade sound of it.

It bugged you a little.

Just enough to find yourself lying flat on the bed in your dorm room, cracked old phone balanced in your hands, thumbs moving across the search bar without a single rational thought guiding them.

You opened the Seattle Eagles’ Instagram page.

And there she was.

Linebacker: Abby Anderson.

The absurd irony of her full name hit you like a brick.

Abigail.

You actually laughed out loud, a sharp, startled noise, at how wrong it sounded.

No way someone built like a walking tank was named after, like, a Victorian poet.

You tapped her tagged account almost without thinking, a tiny, guilty thrill running down your spine.

And holy shit-miracle of miracles- her profile was public.

@abby_anderson8.

Simple. Name, name again, and the number you remembered from her jersey.

“Jesus Christ, I’m acting like a stalker,” you thought grimly.

Then immediately justified it -you weren’t doing anything weird, right?

Just… basic curiosity.

Totally normal.

Not psycho at all.

You scrolled down.

Her bio sat right at the top:

“Yearning for more.”

Three small words.

Underneath it, a Spotify playlist link- blue, tempting, but you didn’t click yet.

You shrugged to yourself, hovering, then scrolled deeper- like the bottom of her profile was some kind of black hole and your thumb was caught in its pull, circling closer with every swipe.

You squinted at the screen, drawn in.

Mostly black-and-white shots from games- lots of action shots where she was serious as hell, descriptions kept dry, minimal, sometimes just dates.

Or no captions at all, like the images were supposed to speak for themselves.

Nothing flashy.

Nothing try-hard.

It made you like her a little more, weirdly.

There was something… solid about her. Something that didn’t feel fake.

A few photos with her family. A messy living room Christmas shot.

One with a giant, dopey- pitbull mix, grinning so wide it looked human.

You caught yourself smiling at it- actually smiling- before you panicked and slammed your phone facedown into the mattress.

Yeah.

Enough.

You were dangerously close to spiraling into Dexter levels of weirdness.

You flopped onto your back, staring at the ceiling for a second, chest feeling weirdly tight.

Finally, you stretched an arm toward your creaky desk, pulling your battered laptop off the shelf.

After punching in your password, the desktop loaded- a cluttered mess of folders, widgets, Spotify playlists, half-finished essays, and a wallpaper full of cartoon dogs all wearing dumb little sweaters.

You clicked open your history essay draft.

“Save draft” blinked cheerily at the top of the empty screen.

At the bottom?

“0 words.”

You sighed- deep and miserable- and cracked your knuckles, ready to type literally anything, even “I have no thoughts head empty,” just to fill the void.

And then you heard it.

A bang.

Loud.

Sharp.

Somewhere out in the hallway.

You froze mid-breath.

Another noise, closer- a thudding, panicked stampede of feet, the rising screech of voices tripping over each other in terror.

Your whole body locked up.

Instinct made you edge toward the door, heart hammering against your ribs.

But before you even touched the handle- another bang, unmistakable this time.

A shot.

A fucking gunshot.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” you muttered under your breath, stumbling back.

The PA system above your door crackled to life, voice mechanical and garbled:

“ACTIVE THREAT. SHELTER IN PLACE.”

Right.

Sure.

Like staying put was even an option.

Your body was already moving before your brain caught up.

You yanked open the door and bolted into the chaos.

The hallway was a nightmare- students flooding every direction like a panicked school of fish, faces white with terror, backpacks thudding against walls, shoes squeaking on linoleum.

Chaos.

Panic.

You didn’t even think- you just ran.

The first closet you saw, you threw yourself at it, ripped it open with shaking hands, and slipped inside.

You twisted the lock so fast you almost tore the handle off.

Instantly, the heavy chemical smell hit you.

Disinfectant. Mildew. Bleach so strong it made your eyes water.

You gagged, stumbling back and pressing yourself into the corner, knees pulled tight to your chest, the mop bucket digging coldly into your side.

Your first instinct- was to text your family.

You pulled out your phone, fingers fumbling so badly you almost dropped it:

“Love you. Don’t worry. Hope it’s just a drill.”

It looked weak.

Pathetic.

But you sent it anyway, heart breaking a little as you did.

You looked up, trying to ground yourself- trying to listen/ trying to think.

And then your foot caught on something.

Or someone.

You crashed down hard, swearing as your elbow cracked against a metal shelf.

You lifted your head, blinking through the tears in your eyes.

And there she was.

Abby Anderson.

She was half-sitting, half-squatting under a shelf of industrial paper towels, one earbud still dangling from her ear, staring at you with wide, unbothered blue eyes.

Her blond hair was braided tight against her scalp today,shirt sleeves tugged over her arms.

Black Seattle Eagles shirt. Gray sweats. Beat-up red Nike backpack tossed beside her.

She looked… infuriatingly calm.

Not detached- not oblivious- just steady, like even now she was weighing things, making plans you could never hear.

You slid down the opposite wall, hands trembling so hard you almost dropped your phone.

Your fists clenched until you felt your nails cutting into your skin, trying to feel anything but the blind panic clawing up your throat.

“You good?”

Her voice was low, rough around the edges- like gravel- but steady.

You lifted your head slowly, the smallest glare forming in your bloodshot eyes.

“Define good,” you rasped out, voice cracked and dry.

Abby gave a half-smirk, leaned back lazily against the mop buckets like they were lounge chairs.

A casual confidence radiated off her, almost infuriating.

“Breathing’s a start,” she said dryly. “Gonna keep you calm.”

You stared at her for a second, wild and disbelieving.

Calm.

Sure.

You were two seconds away from dying of a cardiac arrest, but yeah, breathing was a fucking start.

Maybe if she Amazon Prime’d you some of that calm, then you’d be in business.

Outside, the muffled chaos continued- the shouts, the thuds, the distant wail of sirens.

Every time a noise sharpened, you flinched so hard the shelves rattled.

You needed- desperately-a distraction.

“So,” you said, voice cracking like dry wood, “nice real estate you picked.”

Abby actually laughed.

Not a chuckle- a full, low laugh, rough and real, the kind that dug its way under your skin and stayed there.

“Best spot on campus,” she said, straight-faced.

You swiped your sweaty palms across your jeans and, for a moment, the fear eased.

It wasn’t gone- not by a long shot- but it dulled just enough to breathe again.

“Never got your name,” she said after a while, blue eyes flicking over your face, casual but intent, like she was committing it to memory.

You told her, voice low.

She nodded once, slow.

“Abby,” she said simply.

You barely stopped yourself from blurting out “Yeah, I know,” like you weren’t checking her instagram page half a second ago.

She seemed to sense the awkwardness and steamrolled right through it.

“So…uhh” Abby said, stretching her legs out like this was a weird social experiment.

“What do you like to do? You know- when you’re not almost dying in broom closets?”

It was so stupidly normal you barked a laugh- half-hysterical, but real.

And somehow- you started telling her.

About sketching during lectures.

About your dog back home.

About the time you thought you could ride a bike no-hands and ate shit so hard you still had a scar on your chin.

Abby told you about the welding accident- the shop-class scale she broke in high school trying to measure her own weight- how the teacher never let her live it down.

You laughed.

She laughed.

It was easy.

Too easy.

At one point, Abby balanced a bottle of Windex on her knee like a circus act and said, grinning lazily,

“Bet you cry easy too.”

Without hesitation, you flipped her off.

She cracked up-loud and rough, throwing her head back against the shelf.

And for the first time all day, the world didn’t feel like it was ending.

“DRILL OVER. STUDENTS MAY GO BACK TO THEIR DORMS."

Reality hit you both at once.

You pushed up first, legs shaking like you ran a marathon.

Abby grunted as she stood, brushing off her sweats.

You were reaching for the door when you felt her tap your arm.

“Hey,” she said, casual as anything.

“Give me your number.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“What for?”

“In case there’s another lockdown drill,” she said with a straight face. “Y’know. So we can freak out together.”

You huffed out a breath- not quite a laugh- and fished out your battered iPhone.

She took one look at it and recoiled dramatically.

“Jesus,” she muttered, snatching it from you carefully, like it might explode.

“This thing’s a fucking fossil.”

You straightened your spine, mock-offended.

“I’m sentimentally attached.”

Abby didn’t miss a beat.

She smirked wickedly and fired back:

“You’re sentimentally insane.”

You snorted, half-embarrassed, half-grinning, as she entered her number and handed it back with exaggerated care.

“There,” she said. “Try not to send me a smoke signal when you text.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered, tucking it into your pocket.

You both stepped out into the bruised afternoon light.

You turned to her one last time, the words catching somewhere in your throat.

Abby caught your glance, raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at her mouth.

“What?” she teased. “Checking out the biceps?”

You barked a laugh.“Please. I was mentally filing a restraining order.”

Abby threw her head back and laughed -loud and rough and real -and slung her red backpack over one shoulder.

With a lazy two-fingered salute, she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

You stood there a second longer, phone heavy in your pocket, heart weirdly lighter than it had been in a long, long time.

Somewhere deep down, something in you had shifted.

And you had a strange, stupid feeling it wasn’t done shifting yet.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

[cwboyss]

LMAOO

WEST OF HERE~🏈

|| UNIVERSITY AU || ABBY & READER ||

||so far a one shot- possibly could turn into a slowburn if anyone wants it- keep in mind i’m not english speaking 😭|| also wanted to admire Abby’s character a bit instead of jumping into crazy smuts… sigh, have fun!

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The air hit different here- heavier somehow, even with the ocean breeze trying to sweep it clean.

You stood on the curb with your suitcase at your side, staring up at the squat gray dorm building like it might swallow you whole.

It was the end of August.

Summer wasn’t gone yet, but it was bleeding out- slow and quiet, under skies that already felt too soft around the edges.

Your parents’ goodbye still clung to you like second skin: your mom’s tight smile, the way your dad’s hug lasted a beat too long.

Boston was three thousand miles behind you now.

And for the first time, you were really alone.

The cab pulled away from the sidewalk.

You stayed where you were for a moment, shoulders stiff, feeling that hollow pit yawning a little wider inside your chest.

No turning back.

Inside, the dorm smelled faintly like dust and old carpet.

You dragged your stuff up four flights of stairs because you didn’t have the energy to look for the elevator, sweat sticking to your back by the time you found your room.

Empty walls.

Two twin beds, one of them yours. A desk by the window.

No roommate yet.

You dropped your duffel with a thud, the sound weirdly loud in the empty space.

Then you sat down on the bare mattress, elbows on your knees, and stared out the open window.

Seattle stretched out beyond the campus like a postcard you weren’t sure how to read yet- misty hills, steel bridges, the blue-gray smudge of the Sound in the distance.

The breeze slid past the windowsill, cool against your damp skin, carrying the faint, far-off sound of cleats hitting turf somewhere across campus.

Maybe football practice.

Maybe life just going on without you.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around you even though it wasn’t cold yet.

Somewhere below, people were laughing, dragging boxes into buildings, starting their own versions of this day.

You weren’t part of it yet.

You were just-here.

You swallowed hard, blinked once, and forced yourself up.

Unpack.

Breathe out.

Start over.

It wasn’t home.

Not yet.

But it would have to be.

Unpacking feels impossible. Instead, you dig into your backpack for the thing you know will at least make this place feel a little like yours: a battered, half-broken CD player. The people your age have long since upgraded to sleek vinyl players or clean Spotify setups, but not you. You pull out your stack of scratched CDs, mostly from the ’80s. Some of the labels are faded from the years, others cracked from overuse.

You pick one-”Crowded House"and shove the disc into the machine. It whirs, complains, and finally coughs out a track.

You collapse onto the creaky twin bed and stare out the window at the sunset spilling across the mountains. The air smells clean, faintly salty. You crack open the window wider, trying to let that feeling in. "Maybe I’ll get used to this",you mutter to yourself, voice low, almost like you’re trying to convince yourself.

Your hand finds the small, leather notebook tucked in your bag- a something you picked up before leaving home, deciding that if you were starting over, you needed a new place to pour the mess inside you. A fresh start, or at least a fresh place to write all the same old things.

You grab a pencil, rolling it between your fingers as you think. Then, almost absentmindedly, you start sketching the outline of the mountains framed by the window, the jagged edges contrasting with the softness of the sky. The music hums in the background, gentle and steady, as the lines on the page take shape. Your chest loosens a little. It’s like each stroke on the paper gets rid of some of the tension in your shoulders.

When you’re almost finished, you scrawl a line at the bottom of the page:

“Seattle-don’t let me down.”

The last thing you remember is the sound of the wind against the glass and the feeling of graphite smudging your fingertips before you fall asleep.

⫘⫘⫘

You wake up the next morning with a headache and your notebook still cradled to your chest. Your phone-an ancient black iPhone 6 that you’ve stubbornly refused to replace- buzzes weakly on the nightstand. 7:05 AM.

“Could be worse,” you think with a yawn.

You drag yourself through the motions of the morning: cheap breakfast bar, brushing your teeth in the flickering dorm bathroom light, stuffing the heavy backpack onto your already sore shoulders.

First class: Introduction to Psychology.

You tap your fingers against the desk, absently watching the professor’s hand gestures as they explain the basics of Pavlov’s dogs, filling out the first pages of a brand-new notebook-the one with a dog printed on the cover you picked last minute because it was the only one with a weird vibe that made you laugh. I might be the only person here who finds this notebook oddly comforting, you think to yourself. The day crawls, a slow drip of hours, but you survive it.

When classes finally end, you don’t go straight back to your room.

Instead, you wander- past the library, the coffee shop, the cluster of oak trees shading the quad-letting the sun soak into your skin, your body already rebelling against the dorm life. You’re already craving some space to breathe.

Then you spot it: the football field. Massive, lined in deep green artificial turf. It sits just beyond your dorm, practically calling your name.

Curious, you climb the bleachers, dragging your tired body up the metal steps until you can sit at the top and breathe. The weight of the day seems to lift slightly as you settle in. You pull out your battered notebook again, click your pencil into your hand. Old white earbuds dangle from your ears, patched together with an adapter because your ancient phone refuses to upgrade. At this point, it’s almost a badge of honor-the embodiment of a refusal to let go of what’s old, what’s real, what’s yours.

You glance toward the field. A group of girls is already out there, practicing-fast, brutal, relentless. The sound of their shoes on turf, the echoing orders of the coach, the crisp air, it all pulls you in.

And then your eyes lock on her.

“Anderson!” the coach shouts, her whistle slicing through the air.

You squint toward the figure standing stock-still, her presence commanding the attention of everyone around her. She doesn’t flinch.

The coach’s voice is sharp, cutting through the noise of the field, and she doesn’t hesitate: “Anderson!”- she shouts again. It’s not a call, it’s a challenge.

You watch as the girl-"Anderson"-freezes in her tracks. Her posture doesn’t falter, but the tension in the air is palpable. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t make a move, just stands there, tall and still, like she’s waiting for the storm to pass.

The coach strides toward her, her expression a mix of frustration and disappointment. “Focus up,” she growls, low but firm. Each word lands with weight. “Stop bumping into everyone on purpose. This isn’t just your game. Get it together.”

Her response is low, barely audible from this distance, but clear. “I’m not babysitting anyone, Coach. But fine. I’ll try to keep it under control.”

The coach doesn’t even flinch, just stares at her, knowing this isn’t the first time. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Focus. Or it’s not just the game you’ll be sitting out.”

There’s a moment of silence. Anderson doesn’t respond. She just nods once, sharp and precise, almost too sharp. No apology, no excuse- just acceptance. Without another word, she turns back to the field, her strides long and purposeful. The air around her shifts as she moves, like everything around her shifts, too. The team picks up the pace, but there’s a weight to the air now, something unresolved.

The coach stands there for a second longer, watching the blonde girl’s back, her gaze unreadable. Then, without a second glance, she turns and walks away, disappearing into the distance, leaving Anderson to carry the weight of her presence alone.

You watch as her posture changes. Her shoulders shift, her jaw sets, and she becomes the embodiment of focus. She’s taller than the others-easily five’nine—built like an ox, solid, powerful. Broad shoulders, sharply cut arms, moving like a coiled wire. Every step she takes is calculated, purposeful. Her dark blue jersey clings to her back, the number 8 stamped across it, like a badge of something earned, not given.

Her hair, dirty blonde and messy, is tied in a loose braid, strands whipping around her face like they have a mind of their own. She doesn’t seem to notice — or care — as they fall out of place. She’s used to being watched, used to being the center of attention, used to having control. Even when she’s being reprimanded, there’s something about her — a quiet power. She doesn’t back down.

You can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on here than meets the eye. She’s not just another player. Not just another name on the roster. There’s something different about her. Something waiting to be uncovered

You find yourself staring, like you can’t look away. "God, that’s not weird, right?"-you think, but it’s too late. Your hand is already moving, pencil flying across the page, capturing the fierce way she moves-charging forward, relentless. There’s something about the way she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down, even when she doesn’t have to be the one leading.

Her nose looks slightly crooked, like it might’ve been broken once, maybe twice, the story of a past that hasn’t quite been erased. Her features aren’t “pretty” in the usual sense-they’re sharp, weathered, magnetic, like she’s lived a thousand lives in a few short years. But there’s something real about her, something that makes you want to draw her. Or at least-get this out of your head.

You smirk to yourself, jotting a lazy note under your rough sketch:

“The girl who looks like that ‘Maneater’ song. She’s kinda cool”

You chuckle softly at the absurdity of it, but honestly, it feels kind of perfect. She looks and seems, like she could break your heart and make you fall in love with her all at once. You can’t help it. You’re already thinking TOO much.

The sky bleeds purple and orange above you, the night starting to edge in. For the first time in a long while, you let yourself think:

Maybe this place won’t be so bad after all.

Not just because of the sunsets.

But because of whatever-whoever-you’ve just found.

And you know damn well-you’ll be here again tomorrow.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Lowkey wanna write more 🤿

[cwboyss]

WEST OF HERE~🏈

|| UNIVERSITY AU || ABBY & READER ||

||so far a one shot- possibly could turn into a slowburn if anyone wants it- keep in mind i’m not english speaking 😭|| also wanted to admire Abby’s character a bit instead of jumping into crazy smuts… sigh, have fun!

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The air hit different here- heavier somehow, even with the ocean breeze trying to sweep it clean.

You stood on the curb with your suitcase at your side, staring up at the squat gray dorm building like it might swallow you whole.

It was the end of August.

Summer wasn’t gone yet, but it was bleeding out- slow and quiet, under skies that already felt too soft around the edges.

Your parents’ goodbye still clung to you like second skin: your mom’s tight smile, the way your dad’s hug lasted a beat too long.

Boston was three thousand miles behind you now.

And for the first time, you were really alone.

The cab pulled away from the sidewalk.

You stayed where you were for a moment, shoulders stiff, feeling that hollow pit yawning a little wider inside your chest.

No turning back.

Inside, the dorm smelled faintly like dust and old carpet.

You dragged your stuff up four flights of stairs because you didn’t have the energy to look for the elevator, sweat sticking to your back by the time you found your room.

Empty walls.

Two twin beds, one of them yours. A desk by the window.

No roommate yet.

You dropped your duffel with a thud, the sound weirdly loud in the empty space.

Then you sat down on the bare mattress, elbows on your knees, and stared out the open window.

Seattle stretched out beyond the campus like a postcard you weren’t sure how to read yet- misty hills, steel bridges, the blue-gray smudge of the Sound in the distance.

The breeze slid past the windowsill, cool against your damp skin, carrying the faint, far-off sound of cleats hitting turf somewhere across campus.

Maybe football practice.

Maybe life just going on without you.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around you even though it wasn’t cold yet.

Somewhere below, people were laughing, dragging boxes into buildings, starting their own versions of this day.

You weren’t part of it yet.

You were just-here.

You swallowed hard, blinked once, and forced yourself up.

Unpack.

Breathe out.

Start over.

It wasn’t home.

Not yet.

But it would have to be.

Unpacking feels impossible. Instead, you dig into your backpack for the thing you know will at least make this place feel a little like yours: a battered, half-broken CD player. The people your age have long since upgraded to sleek vinyl players or clean Spotify setups, but not you. You pull out your stack of scratched CDs, mostly from the ’80s. Some of the labels are faded from the years, others cracked from overuse.

You pick one-”Crowded House"and shove the disc into the machine. It whirs, complains, and finally coughs out a track.

You collapse onto the creaky twin bed and stare out the window at the sunset spilling across the mountains. The air smells clean, faintly salty. You crack open the window wider, trying to let that feeling in. "Maybe I’ll get used to this",you mutter to yourself, voice low, almost like you’re trying to convince yourself.

Your hand finds the small, leather notebook tucked in your bag- a something you picked up before leaving home, deciding that if you were starting over, you needed a new place to pour the mess inside you. A fresh start, or at least a fresh place to write all the same old things.

You grab a pencil, rolling it between your fingers as you think. Then, almost absentmindedly, you start sketching the outline of the mountains framed by the window, the jagged edges contrasting with the softness of the sky. The music hums in the background, gentle and steady, as the lines on the page take shape. Your chest loosens a little. It’s like each stroke on the paper gets rid of some of the tension in your shoulders.

When you’re almost finished, you scrawl a line at the bottom of the page:

“Seattle-don’t let me down.”

The last thing you remember is the sound of the wind against the glass and the feeling of graphite smudging your fingertips before you fall asleep.

⫘⫘⫘

You wake up the next morning with a headache and your notebook still cradled to your chest. Your phone-an ancient black iPhone 6 that you’ve stubbornly refused to replace- buzzes weakly on the nightstand. 7:05 AM.

“Could be worse,” you think with a yawn.

You drag yourself through the motions of the morning: cheap breakfast bar, brushing your teeth in the flickering dorm bathroom light, stuffing the heavy backpack onto your already sore shoulders.

First class: Introduction to Psychology.

You tap your fingers against the desk, absently watching the professor’s hand gestures as they explain the basics of Pavlov’s dogs, filling out the first pages of a brand-new notebook-the one with a dog printed on the cover you picked last minute because it was the only one with a weird vibe that made you laugh. I might be the only person here who finds this notebook oddly comforting, you think to yourself. The day crawls, a slow drip of hours, but you survive it.

When classes finally end, you don’t go straight back to your room.

Instead, you wander- past the library, the coffee shop, the cluster of oak trees shading the quad-letting the sun soak into your skin, your body already rebelling against the dorm life. You’re already craving some space to breathe.

Then you spot it: the football field. Massive, lined in deep green artificial turf. It sits just beyond your dorm, practically calling your name.

Curious, you climb the bleachers, dragging your tired body up the metal steps until you can sit at the top and breathe. The weight of the day seems to lift slightly as you settle in. You pull out your battered notebook again, click your pencil into your hand. Old white earbuds dangle from your ears, patched together with an adapter because your ancient phone refuses to upgrade. At this point, it’s almost a badge of honor-the embodiment of a refusal to let go of what’s old, what’s real, what’s yours.

You glance toward the field. A group of girls is already out there, practicing-fast, brutal, relentless. The sound of their shoes on turf, the echoing orders of the coach, the crisp air, it all pulls you in.

And then your eyes lock on her.

“Anderson!” the coach shouts, her whistle slicing through the air.

You squint toward the figure standing stock-still, her presence commanding the attention of everyone around her. She doesn’t flinch.

The coach’s voice is sharp, cutting through the noise of the field, and she doesn’t hesitate: “Anderson!”- she shouts again. It’s not a call, it’s a challenge.

You watch as the girl-"Anderson"-freezes in her tracks. Her posture doesn’t falter, but the tension in the air is palpable. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t make a move, just stands there, tall and still, like she’s waiting for the storm to pass.

The coach strides toward her, her expression a mix of frustration and disappointment. “Focus up,” she growls, low but firm. Each word lands with weight. “Stop bumping into everyone on purpose. This isn’t just your game. Get it together.”

Her response is low, barely audible from this distance, but clear. “I’m not babysitting anyone, Coach. But fine. I’ll try to keep it under control.”

The coach doesn’t even flinch, just stares at her, knowing this isn’t the first time. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Focus. Or it’s not just the game you’ll be sitting out.”

There’s a moment of silence. Anderson doesn’t respond. She just nods once, sharp and precise, almost too sharp. No apology, no excuse- just acceptance. Without another word, she turns back to the field, her strides long and purposeful. The air around her shifts as she moves, like everything around her shifts, too. The team picks up the pace, but there’s a weight to the air now, something unresolved.

The coach stands there for a second longer, watching the blonde girl’s back, her gaze unreadable. Then, without a second glance, she turns and walks away, disappearing into the distance, leaving Anderson to carry the weight of her presence alone.

You watch as her posture changes. Her shoulders shift, her jaw sets, and she becomes the embodiment of focus. She’s taller than the others-easily five’nine—built like an ox, solid, powerful. Broad shoulders, sharply cut arms, moving like a coiled wire. Every step she takes is calculated, purposeful. Her dark blue jersey clings to her back, the number 8 stamped across it, like a badge of something earned, not given.

Her hair, dirty blonde and messy, is tied in a loose braid, strands whipping around her face like they have a mind of their own. She doesn’t seem to notice — or care — as they fall out of place. She’s used to being watched, used to being the center of attention, used to having control. Even when she’s being reprimanded, there’s something about her — a quiet power. She doesn’t back down.

You can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on here than meets the eye. She’s not just another player. Not just another name on the roster. There’s something different about her. Something waiting to be uncovered

You find yourself staring, like you can’t look away. "God, that’s not weird, right?"-you think, but it’s too late. Your hand is already moving, pencil flying across the page, capturing the fierce way she moves-charging forward, relentless. There’s something about the way she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down, even when she doesn’t have to be the one leading.

Her nose looks slightly crooked, like it might’ve been broken once, maybe twice, the story of a past that hasn’t quite been erased. Her features aren’t “pretty” in the usual sense-they’re sharp, weathered, magnetic, like she’s lived a thousand lives in a few short years. But there’s something real about her, something that makes you want to draw her. Or at least-get this out of your head.

You smirk to yourself, jotting a lazy note under your rough sketch:

“The girl who looks like that ‘Maneater’ song. She’s kinda cool”

You chuckle softly at the absurdity of it, but honestly, it feels kind of perfect. She looks and seems, like she could break your heart and make you fall in love with her all at once. You can’t help it. You’re already thinking TOO much.

The sky bleeds purple and orange above you, the night starting to edge in. For the first time in a long while, you let yourself think:

Maybe this place won’t be so bad after all.

Not just because of the sunsets.

But because of whatever-whoever-you’ve just found.

And you know damn well-you’ll be here again tomorrow.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Lowkey wanna write more 🤿

[cwboyss]

Friendly reminder that as devastating as THAT scene is, y'all better leave Kaitlyn Dever THE FUCK alone. Hate Abby all you want, but Kaitlyn is an actress and a real human. Do NOT repeat what happened to Laura Bailey. Okay thx bye

[cwboyss]

I don't EVER wanna hear you say they don't know how to act again.