The crisp August air bit through the Boise State stadium, wafting the scent of popcorn and spilled beer, but Ethan’s bare, blue-painted torso radiated enough nervous heat to power the stadium lights. His face was a masterpiece of school spirit; orange stripes slashed across his cheeks, a temporary “BSU” tattoo peeling off his bicep, and a foam finger so large it kept smacking the elderly fan behind him. He’d lost his shirt hours ago in a pre-game dare, and his socks? Mismatched. One Boise blue, one traffic-cone orange. Classic Ethan.

         Nora spotted him first, a human bobblehead screaming at the refs, his voice hoarse from yelling. She’d recognized him from Psych 101: the guy who once tried to argue that Pavlov’s dogs were just “overachieving lab interns.” Now, here he was, a walking abstract painting, spilling nacho cheese on himself as he lunged to his feet.

         “Hey, you’re in psych, aren’t you?” she shouted, leaning into his personal space, which, given the crowd, was approximately two inches.

         “Huh?” Ethan spun, blue hair (courtesy of a spray can) sticking straight up like a startled parrot. His eyes flicked to her for half a second before darting back to the field. “OH MY GOD! DID YOU SEE THAT?!” He jabbed his foam finger at the receiver leaping for a Hail Mary pass, nearly poking Nora’s eye out. “THAT’S A CATCH! A CATCH, I TELL YA!”

         The ball thwacked into the receiver’s hands… then popped loose as a linebacker torpedoed into him. The crowd erupted, half cheers, half fury, and Ethan collapsed into his seat like a deflated balloon. “ROBBED! WE’VE BEEN ROBBED BY A MAN IN STRIPED PAJAMAS!” He gestured wildly at the ref, sloshing his drink onto his neon-orange sweatpants.

         Nora snorted. “Real smooth, Picasso. You’re in Professor Whit’s class, right? The one who thinks Freud’s ‘Oedipus complex’ is a dating app?”

         Ethan froze. Her. The girl who’d dissected his “contributions” to class debates with lethal wit. The one who wore cute nerdy glasses and took copious notes. The one he’d rehearsed “Hey, wanna grab coffee?” to in the mirror 47 times. And here she was, talking to him while he looked like a melted popsicle.

         “Uh…yep! That’s me!” He straightened, accidently smearing blue paint on her sleeve. “Sorry! I’m, uh…really hydrated. Sweating school spirit! Ha. Ha.”

         She raised a perfect eyebrow. “Hydrated with Bud Light, maybe.”      

   The crowd roared again as the Broncos intercepted, but Ethan barely noticed. Panic set in. Say something cool. Say. Something. Cool. “So, hey, you wanna…uh.. grab coffee? Now? Like, now-now?”         

Nora burst out laughing. “You’re not even wearing a shirt.”

“I…” he glanced down. Blue chest hair. Orange armpits. A whole nacho stuck to his abs. How did that get there? “I… have a jacket?” He reached for a nearby seat (not his) and yanked a stained hoodie from a scowling stranger. “Ta-da! Modesty!”

         “Wow. So chic,” she deadpanned, then relented with a grin. “Tell you what. Let’s watch the Broncos crush the Vandals, then you can shower off… whatever this is—” she flicked his blue bicep, “—and meet me at The Gridiron Café. 8PM. Wear fabric.”

         “Deal!” Ethan blurted, then winced. “Wait…what’s your name again?”

         “Nora.” She tossed a pretzel at his head. “The one you definitely didn’t stare at all semester.”

         He turned the color of his chest paint. “I…uh…was meditating on Freudian sublimation.”

         “Sure, Freudian.” She smirked as the crowd surged around them. “Now yell something manly so I don’t feel guilty about distracting you from the game.”

         Ethan obliged, leaping up with a roar as the Broncos scored…. then tripped over his foam finger, toppling into her lap.

         “Smooth,” Nora laughed, shoving him upright.

         Yep, he thought, grinning like an idiot. Totally worth the rash from the body paint.