Fallen Cheer•

The air punched out of my lungs, a wet, humiliating *whumpf* against the blue competition mat. My hands, taped and chalky, scraped the rough vinyl. Not a proud flyer’s landing. Not even close.

“Woods, for God’s sake. Stick it.” Chloe Vance’s voice, sharp as a fresh blade, cut through the echo of the gym. She stood on the edge of the mat, hands on her hips, her perfect blonde ponytail swinging like a taunt. Her own basket toss earlier had been flawless, a mid-air pike that earned a collective gasp from the rest of the squad. My flub was a direct insult to her reign.

I pushed up, the adrenaline already fading, replaced by the familiar burn of my quads. "Yeah, I saw it, Chloe." My voice was rough, but I didn't back down. The taste of dust, sweat, and failure clung to my tongue.

Behind her, leaning against the bleachers with a digital video camera in his hand, was Jaxon Miller. He was wearing his gray Beacon Point football hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and light hair. He wasn't watching the rest of the girls. He was looking straight at me, his brow slightly furrowed, those dark eyes tracking my movement as I stood up. My stomach did a weird, stupid flip that had nothing to do with the fall.

Coach Miller blew his whistle, the sound a shrill invasion in the cavernous space. “Alright, alright, break it down. Last full run, people. Vegas isn’t going to cheer itself.” He clapped his hands, a sharp, military rhythm. He was built like a retired linebacker, all solid muscle and no-nonsense. His son got that from him. “Woods, you’re up. Let’s clean it up.”

I nodded, my breath still ragged. My chest felt tight. Not just from the impact, but from the pressure. This was it. Our last practice before nationals. Everything had to be perfect. Everything.

The gym smelled like industrial-strength floor cleaner, coconut-scented hairspray, and the metallic tang of our own exertion. My sneakers squeaked against the polished wood as I walked back to my mark. The blue mat stretched out, a silent, expectant beast. My eyes found Jenna Hayes, my best friend, already in position as a back spot. She gave me a small, encouraging smile, her own face slick with sweat.

“You okay?” she whispered, eyes darting toward the bleachers where Jax was still standing.

“Fine,” I muttered.

We set up. I took my breath. The bases gripped my feet, their hands solid, familiar anchors. *One, two, three, four, up.* I went skyward. This time, I stuck it. Clean. Sharp. When I landed, the first person I looked at was Jax. He had lowered the camera. He gave me a single, slow nod.

My heart hammered against my ribs, and it wasn't from the stunt.

The locker room was a humid cave of steam and girl-talk. The air hung thick with the cloying sweetness of bath bombs mixed with the biting sting of icy-hot muscle rub. I peeled the athletic tape from my wrists, the sticky residue clinging to my skin. Jenna Hayes sat on the bench beside me, humming a nameless pop song as she braided her still-damp hair.

“You still excited?” I asked, shucking off my BPU Griffins practice tee. It was soaked through, sticking to my ribs.

Jenna’s hum hitched. “Vegas? Duh. We’re going to kill it.” She nudged my shoulder with her elbow, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “But honestly? I’m more excited to watch you squirm for five hours on a private jet.”

I rolled my eyes, pulling my clean, oversized navy BPU sweatshirt over my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right. Because Jaxon Miller didn’t spend the entire three-hour practice staring at you like you’re the only girl in the room.” Jenna leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s the starting quarterback, Laurie. He has half the campus throwing themselves at him, and he’s volunteering to carry heavy mats to Vegas just to be near *you*.”

My face burned. I hated that she was right. It had been this way since freshman year—this weird, magnetic pull between us that neither of us had the balls to address. Jax was the coach’s son. He was the golden boy of the football team. And I was just a flyer who spent half her life tossed in the air.

“It’s complicated, Jen,” I murmured, tying my sneakers. “His dad is literally our head coach. If Bill thought for one second that Jax and I were… whatever we are, he’d bench me so fast my head would spin.”

“He wouldn’t,” Jenna scoffed. “But seriously. You two need to figure it out. The tension is exhausting.”

I grabbed my duffel bag, my thoughts tumbling. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But every time Jax got close, every time those dark eyes locked onto mine and his voice dropped to that low, raspy register, I froze. He was a lot. He was everything. And the thought of losing the quiet, safe friendship we had built over the years terrified me.

The BPU athletic tarmac was a vast expanse of gray concrete, cold and unwelcoming after the humid locker room. The Vermont air scraped my lungs, dry and sharp, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the gym. Our private charter, a sleek white jet with the BPU Griffin logo emblazoned on its tail, shimmered under the weak afternoon sun. A promise of glitz and glory awaited.

Jaxon was already there, doing exactly what Jenna said. He was helping his dad haul massive gear bags and suitcases into the plane's cargo hold. He wore a heavy black jacket, the hood pulled up against the biting wind, and a pair of worn-out jeans that molded to his thick, muscular thighs. Even just loading luggage, he moved with that quarterback’s controlled, powerful grace.

Rico, one of our male bases, tossed a small duffel bag over Jaxon’s head. “Yo, Miller! Think you could actually *catch* a pass for once?”

Jaxon snagged it one-handed, his movement fluid, effortless. He didn’t even look at Rico, just tossed the bag into the hold with a soft thump. “Keep dreaming, Ramirez.” His voice was low, gruff, and carried just enough edge to silence Rico’s banter.

I walked toward the airstair, my heart doing that stupid, fluttering dance again. Jax paused, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked up, his gaze cutting through the crowd of girls right to me.

He stopped working. His arms hung loose at his sides, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the cold air feel hot. He didn't smile, not really, but the corner of his mouth ticked up.

"Don't fall on the stairs, Woods," he called out, his voice a low rumble over the sound of the wind.

"I have excellent balance, Miller," I shot back, though my cheeks were already burning.

"Right. Saw that earlier on the mat."

"Shut up," I muttered, but I was smiling. I climbed the stairs, feeling his eyes on my back the entire way up.

Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was electric. Girls were already snapping selfies, making last-minute TikToks against the backdrop of the plush leather seats. "Vegas bound, baby!" Zoey shrieked, striking a pose in the aisle. Captain Vance, a grizzled man with kind eyes, and First Officer Brenda "Bee" Chen greeted us at the cabin door. Their smiles were professional, reassuring.

I found my seat next to Jenna Hayes in the middle of the cabin. A few rows up, Coach Miller and Coach Sarah were going over routine notes. Jaxon was across the aisle from me, leaning back in his seat, seemingly asleep already.

The engines whined to life, a deep, resonant hum beneath our feet. The plane taxied, then roared down the runway, lifting into the gray sky. The excitement in the cabin peaked, everyone laughing and talking about the pool parties and the competition.

Hours passed. The initial buzz faded into the drone of the engines, a constant, vibrating hum that lulled most of the team into a state of drowsy relaxation. Some girls pulled out books, others watched movies on their personal screens, their faces illuminated by the soft glow. Jenna had her headphones in, eyes closed, already halfway to sleep.

I tried to read, but my mind kept drifting. I glanced across the aisle. Jaxon was indeed asleep, his head tilted back against the headrest, a dark stubble shadowing his jaw. Even asleep, there was an intensity about him, a quiet power. A familiar warmth spread through my chest, a small, selfish comfort in his proximity.

I closed my own eyes, letting the rhythmic vibration of the plane soothe me. The journey to Vegas was long, but finally, we were on our way. I drifted into a light doze, imagining the bright lights, the roar of the crowd, the perfect routine.

The first jolt was sharp and violent, ripping me from my doze.

My head snapped up, hitting the seat in front of me with a thud. My seatbelt dug into my hips as the plane shuddered, hard. The gentle hum of the engines instantly became a high-pitched, metallic shriek, like a thousand nails on a chalkboard, grinding through iron.

The cabin lights flickered wildly, plunging us into momentary darkness before flaring back on in a sickly, flickering yellow. The screams started then, not the excited screams of cheerleaders, but raw, visceral cries of pure terror.

The plane dropped again. Hard. My stomach lurched into my throat. Oxygen masks snapped down from the ceiling, dangling like grotesque yellow ghosts. Alarms blared, a red, strobing warning reflecting off the bloodless faces of my teammates. I saw Coach Miller, his face grim, shouting orders that were drowned out by the horrific roar outside.

"Laurie!" Jenna shrieked, her hand clawing for mine, her headphones ripped from her ears. Her face was bloodless, her eyes wide with terror.

Panic, cold and consuming, flooded my veins.

The cockpit door flew open. First Officer Chen was there, her face paper-white, but her voice was lost in the absolute chaos.

Then, the cabin ripped open.

A deafening, metallic shriek tore through the air as the fuselage ruptured just behind our section. The pressure drop was instant. My ears popped with a searing, blinding pain. Cold, violent wind tore through the breach, sucking at everything not bolted down. A storm of snow and ice swirled inside, turning the air blindingly white.

Through the whiteout, through the screams and the tearing metal, I looked across the aisle.

Jax had unbuckled his seatbelt. He was ignoring the warning lights, ignoring his father screaming at him to stay down. He was lunging across the aisle, a blur of desperate motion, his face set in a look of sheer, terrifying determination.

His eyes were locked on mine.

His large, calloused hand shot through the blinding snow, grabbing my wrist with a grip so tight it bruised. He pulled me toward him, his body acting as a shield against the incoming debris, against the impossible, brutal wind.

"I've got you!" he roared over the sound of the dying engines, his voice raw, desperate.

Then the nose of the plane dipped, plunging us down, and the world went blindingly white.