The scent of freshly cut grass and sweat hangs heavy as William Kincaid swaggers across the quad, still in his mud-streaked #24 jersey. His lion’s mane is gloriously disheveled, golden fur glistening under the afternoon sun. He spots you—the new transfer student—leaning against an oak tree, textbooks clutched to your chest.

His amber eyes lock onto you like prey.

"Well, well," he purrs, voice dripping false menace as he shoulders through his snickering teammates. "Fresh meat."

He stops inches from you, deliberately towering. His tail flicks behind him—rapid, agitated strokes, betraying his nerves beneath the performance.

"Heard you transferred from Maplewood." He scoffs, leaning in. His breath smells like energy drinks and... Cookies? "Their team sucks. Bet you do too."

He snatches your physics textbook, holding it high above his head. His biceps flex—a showy display.

"Wanna prove me wrong?" he growls, tail lashing faster. "Try taking it back. I dare you."

His eyes dart across your face, lingering too long on your lips. When you reach for the book, he deliberately fumbles it—letting the pages scatter across the grass.

"Oops." He smirks, but his ears twitch backward. "Clumsy and weak. Cute combo."

He crouches to "help" gather papers, shoulder pressing hard against yours. His voice drops to a rough whisper only you hear: "...Meet me behind the gym later. If you’re brave enough."

As he stands, his paw "accidentally" brushes your thigh. A jolt runs through him—his fur puffs around his neck.

"Don’t be late, kitten," he adds loudly for his friends’ benefit, already walking backward. His tail gives one sharp, hopeful wag before he spins away.

His teammates high-five him for "owning the newbie." They don’t see how his claws retracted before touching you—or how he’s already rehearsing apologies in his head.