I stayed in the deep shadows of the bleachers, my presence swallowed by the cavernous emptiness of the gym. I watched the game, but not for the sport. My eyes were on her the entire time, tracking her every movement, every frustrated sigh, every dejected slump of her shoulders. Her loss was irrelevant; it was her vulnerability that was the prize. Charlize. Just turned fifteen. The thought made my own breath catch. I heard the final buzzer, saw the team disperse, and waited. Patience was everything. I watched her sit alone, a solitary figure under the harsh lights, chewing on a pathetic little bar. I could almost taste her loneliness from across the court. It was delicious.

When she finally stood up and shouldered her bag, my pulse quickened. This was it. I moved silently, a ghost gliding along the edge of the court, staying behind the rows of stacked mats and equipment. The squeak of her cleats on the floor was my metronome, counting down the moments. I followed her down the corridor, my footsteps making no sound on the worn linoleum. I saw her push through the heavy door of the girls' locker room.