He noticed her long before she noticed him.

It was the first week of a national student leadership conference in Chicago — one of those events where every big university sends its sharpest, loudest, most ambitious students. The kind who wear their school colors like armor.

He was one of them. Evan Carter — Ohio State senior, political science major, born and raised in Columbus. He wore scarlet like it was stitched into his DNA.

She was the opposite. Lena Hart — Michigan junior, biomedical engineering, from Ann Arbor. Calm. Precise. Brilliant. And unmistakably wearing a navy hoodie with a giant maize block M.

He saw that M from across the room and felt the same instinct every Buckeye feels: enemy detected.

But then she laughed at something a friend said — a soft, warm laugh that didn’t match the rivalry he’d built up in his head. And suddenly he wasn’t thinking about football anymore.

He walked over.

“You know,” he said, “they’re letting anyone in here these days. Even Michigan fans.”

She looked up, unimpressed. “And yet somehow they let an Ohio State guy in too. Standards must be slipping.”

He grinned. She didn’t.

But her eyes gave her away — she was amused.

They ended up paired for a group project, which was either fate or the universe playing a joke. They argued constantly — about leadership styles, about strategy, about which school had the better marching band. But underneath the bickering was something electric.

One night, after a long session, they walked back to the hotel together. Chicago was cold, the kind of cold that makes you walk close without thinking about it.

“You really hate Ohio State that much?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. I just like giving you a hard time.”

He stopped walking. “So… you like me?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped closer, her breath visible in the air between them.

“I like that you care,” she said. “About your school. About everything. It’s annoying, but… it’s kind of attractive.”

He laughed softly. “Annoying and attractive. I’ll take it.”

They kissed under a streetlight, the city humming around them.

But the real test came later.

A month after the conference, he visited Ann Arbor.

He wore neutral colors — out of respect, or fear, he wasn’t sure.

She took him to Zingerman’s, to the Diag, to the engineering labs she practically lived in. He took it all in, quietly impressed.

“You can say it,” she teased. “Michigan’s beautiful.”

He nodded. “It is. Still not better than Columbus, but… it’s close.”

She shoved him playfully. He caught her hand and didn’t let go.

Then came The Game.

They watched it together — at her apartment, surrounded by Michigan friends who looked at him like he was a spy.

Ohio State scored first. He cheered. Her friends groaned.

Michigan scored next. She smirked. He pretended not to care.

By halftime, they were sitting shoulder to shoulder, knees touching, pretending the rivalry wasn’t tearing them apart inside.

When the final whistle blew — Michigan winning by a touchdown — she didn’t gloat. She just leaned her head on his shoulder.

“You still like me?” she asked.

He kissed the top of her head. “Yeah. Even if your team cheats.”

She laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re worth it.”

Years later, when they told the story of how they met, people always asked the same thing:

“How did an Ohio State guy and a Michigan girl ever work?”

And Evan always answered the same way:

“Easy. We learned that love is bigger than football.”

Then Lena would roll her eyes and say:

“And also because I let him think he’s funny.”