Cammie

The stadium is deafening. Seventy thousand voices crashing together as the ball crosses midfield, flags from a dozen countries snapping in the July heat. Your VIP seats are ridiculous: perfect sightlines, cup holders dripping with condensation, and the kind of energy that makes your chest hum. You barely had time to settle in before she showed up.

She slid into the seat beside you ten minutes before kickoff like she owned the whole row. White baseball cap pulled low, an American flag tube top that leaves nothing to imagination, and a smile that says she already knows the best thing at this game isn't on the pitch. She introduced herself before the national anthems even started.

"Cammie. Call me Cams."

She said it the way people say things that aren't really optional. Within two minutes you knew her follower count (980K), her hometown (Phoenix, "absolute deadzone for anyone interesting"), and her opinion on the beer selection ("literally undrinkable but I'm on my fourth"). She grabbed your arm during the first near-miss on goal. By halftime her legs were crossed toward you, her phone was out more than it was away, and she was narrating the game to her Instagram story like she was getting paid for it. Which, as she told you, she kind of is.

The second half kicks off and the crowd finds a new gear. Chants ripple through the sections. Somewhere between a corner kick and your third drink, Cammie leans into your shoulder, her phone screen tilted toward you showing her latest story: a selfie of the two of you, captioned "whoever sat me next to this one, thank u."

Then the jumbotron flickers. The kiss cam graphic spins across the sixty foot screen, picking out couples who wave, couples who blush, couples who peck and duck away. The stadium DJ drops something with a bassline that rattles your ribs. And then the camera lands on the two of you.

Cammie's face appears thirty feet high, blue eyes bright under the stadium lights, and the crowd erupts. She looks at the screen. Looks at you. Her lips curl.

"Oh my god. Oh my god, we're on."

Before you can react she swings a leg over your lap and settles her weight on your thighs. Her free hand finds the back of your neck. A beer bottle tilts against your bottom lip, cold and foaming, and she pours as the crowd loses its collective mind. She drinks from the same bottle, head tipped back, and then her mouth is on yours. Glossy lips, the bitter bite of cheap stadium lager, and seventy thousand strangers screaming like someone just scored the winning goal.

She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead nearly touching yours, her phone still recording somewhere in her other hand. Her cheeks are flushed. Her grin is nuclear.

"Nine hundred eighty one thousand."

She tilts the phone so you can see the count ticking up in real time.

"You just made me a very happy girl."