Frank's POV
Late July. The airport.
I stood by the security gate, dragging a bright yellow suitcase behind me. Waving at her, I said, "No need to see me off, Mom. It's too hot today—head home early."
"Message me when you land," she replied. "And remember to study hard."
I gave her a soft hum in return. She said that every time, like a scripted farewell. Sometimes, I wanted to ask her: "Do you even remember what I'm majoring in, over in the States?"
But I never did. Not once.
The trip back had been rough. I was practically running on fumes, barely making it through the night. With no direct flights, I had to opt for this long, inconvenient transfer. It wasn't entirely about my class schedule, though.
The real reason… was Alex's birthday.
Honestly, I didn't even know why I came back. To Alex, I should've long since disappeared with the winds of M State.
By the time the plane landed, my head was swimming. Not even the bitterness of coffee could snap me out of it. I shoved my jacket into my backpack, grabbed my suitcase, and wandered into the terminal like a ghost.
I moved slowly—maybe because the people in front of me were slow too. My patience was wearing thin. I stared at the heel of the guy ahead and muttered silently, "Come on, move. I'm about to pass out."
Just as I stepped into the terminal, I caught some voices ahead:
"Hey, hey—look over there! Is that the White Wolves?"
"No way. Seriously?"
"That blond guy—that's Dylan, right? Damn, even those walking mountains gotta be football players."
"Where's William? Do you see William?"
I looked up instinctively.
There they were—a loud, unruly pack sprawled out near the boarding gate. That was the White Wolves' core lineup. My old team. Towering physiques, booming voices, their team colors vivid like a heatwave packed into human form.
And yes, I saw him.
He was sitting back in his chair, dressed in a black T-shirt, eyes down on his phone, surrounded by the team. Not saying a word, yet somehow the center of it all. He didn't have to speak—his presence alone pulled everything toward him.
William.
The moment I saw him, it felt like something blunt struck my chest. Not pain—more like a jolt, enough to make my scalp tingle.
My phone buzzed, dragging me out of my daze.
I quickly looked down, turned around, and headed for a quieter corner away from the gate. I picked the furthest seat I could find, tucked my suitcase between my feet, pulled up my mask, and pretended to scroll through my phone.
A few minutes later, someone sat beside me. The guy had his cap pulled low—face hidden. He must've just come in from outside; the scent of sun and sweat clung faintly to his breath.
I had no intention of making conversation. I was too exhausted. Too emotionally drained.
The overhead speakers buzzed with a news broadcast. I tuned it out—until I heard one particular word.
"White Wolves."
Like a reflex, I lifted my head.
That name... it still stings.
"William has secured his position as starting quarterback since last year, leading the White Wolves to their first championship in six years and claiming MVP without question…"
The screen lit up with footage of him in action. Perfect passes, clean breakthroughs, and that ever-calm expression on his face.
"What's most impressive is his 80%+ pass completion rate under pressure—a composure and judgment beyond collegiate standards…"
I looked down and gave a small laugh.
Even the damn TV can't stop praising him.
Sunlight blazed through the glass wall, scorching my skin. I just wanted to get on the plane and escape this place that felt far too familiar.
"Hey! Coach is treating—ice-cold orange juice!"
A drink was suddenly waved in front of me, but handed over to the guy next to me.
He raised his hand to take it, lifting his cap ever so slightly.
That face.
Those eyes.
Time seemed to freeze.
It was him. William.
He was sitting right next to me—just inches away.
He took the drink without surprise, like he'd known all along. One of his teammates patted his shoulder and said, "Don't be late."
"Yeah, yeah." He chuckled, voice crisp and clear.
I looked away quickly, realizing I had been staring at that orange juice.
I'm really thirsty.
I hadn't had a sip of water since morning.
Sure, I could've bought one myself. But with a backpack, a jacket in my arms, and a suitcase by my feet, the thought of navigating the crowd just for a drink made my head throb.
And no way I'd ask. We hadn't talked in forever.
He probably didn't even know we were on the same flight.
He took a slow sip, the ice clinking against the plastic. For a second, I remembered—he always drank like that. After games, during practice breaks… or at 3 a.m., sitting by my bedside.
We used to be closer than this.
Now, I couldn't even say hi.
He glanced over at me. His gaze passed right over my shoulder—calm, detached. No trace of recognition.
A chill crept up my spine.
The AC brushed over my arm. I instinctively pulled down my sleeve.
No words. No reunion.
He either didn't recognize me, or pretended not to.
And I didn't try to remind him.
We just sat there. Quiet. Like strangers.
Then, without a word, that same cup of orange juice was shoved into my hand.
I didn't look at William. Just glanced at his friend disappearing into the crowd, then bit the straw. The juice burst into my mouth—sweet and cold.
A vibration. My phone buzzed again.
"Why didn't you reply to me?"
I glanced at the message.
"It's not a network issue. Come up with a better excuse."
The heat inside me seemed to melt away with the cold drink. I sighed, quietly.
William stared at my lips wrapped around the straw, his throat visibly tightening.
"Make sure it's an excuse I'll accept."
He tugged his cap lower, but those dark, burning eyes still locked onto me beneath the brim.
"I've been counting seconds waiting for you."
"I was busy," I murmured.
He gestured at his hands, exaggeratedly full.
"I mean all week. I sent you messages. You didn't reply to a single one."
I stayed silent.
At first, I had replied. But Monica saw one of the chats and asked if I had a girlfriend. I said no. Then she asked if I liked boys, why I was always glued to my phone. Her questions got too specific—what's he like, his background, his family—I had no choice but to play dumb.
After that, I stopped replying altogether.
William stood up—and moved directly beside me.
"Frank."
He wore a loose white shirt, arms sun-kissed and fragrant, the kind of scent that made people want to lean closer.
He pressed against me, trapping me against the armrest.
"There are tons of empty seats. Move over."
He ignored me.
His muscular arm slid around my waist, pulling me close. The fire in his eyes said all the things he wouldn't.
If we weren't in an airport, I could already imagine it—his lips crashing down, hand clamping over mine, dragging me into a kiss I couldn't escape.
I could never escape him. He was always like this—wild, reckless.
Not "sometimes."
Always.
"Come to my place tonight?"
Panic flared in me. I shoved his face away and forced the rest of the orange juice back into his hands.
"Keep your voice down. They're not far from us."
"Relax. Harris flew back two days early. The others don't know you."
Harris—one of his closest friends, the team's wide receiver.
Smarter than Dylan or Gary, who were basically muscle with zero tact.
"Still no," I said. "I don't want to keep repeating this, but William, we agreed—no one can know about us."
He looked at me.
My eyes told him I meant it.
He backed off with a pout, rubbing his nose like a scolded kid.
"Am I that shameful to you?"