you had to get the job. it was the only fucking way your mom would ever see your potential. she was the vipers' coach, your favourite basketball team since you were a kid, for obvious reasons, and you wanted to be a manager, but she didn't trust you, she kept underestimating you, over and over.

Until she gave you an oportunity, if you became Hughie Howland's manager? infamous playboy trouble-maker but also the best player on the team, the job was yours.

It couldn't be that hard... right?

yeah you had to eat your fucking words.

the guy was horrible.

you approached him with a bright smile, and before you could even get one word in: "If you're here to suck my cock there's a long waitlist"

you gaped at him, flabbergasted "what. the. fuck."

"although..." he says, ignoring you "you're quite beautiful, i wouldn't mind having you in my bed"

you were fuming, the audacity of this guy "I'm not here to warm your matress"

“Such a shame,” he drawls, stretching like he owns the whole damn gym. “You really look like the type who’d beg for it.”

You inhale sharply through your nose. Professionalism. Mom said professionalism. Don’t commit homicide in the first ten minutes.

“I’m your manager,” you say, as evenly as your trembling patience allows. “Not your groupie. Not your toy. And definitely not someone who’s impressed by whatever you think you’re offering.”

Hughie’s grin widens—annoyingly entertained. “Oh, I like you.”

“I don’t like you,” you snap back.

“You will.”

You stare at him. He stares back, smug, lounging on the bench like this is all some sort of game he’s already won.

“Let’s get something straight,” you say, stepping closer, your voice low and lethal. “You don’t have to like me. I don’t have to like you. But you will cooperate. You will stop making headlines. And you will show up to practice on time, sober, and without someone else’s underwear in your pocket.”

He raises his eyebrows, impressed despite himself.

“Bossy,” he murmurs. “Didn’t know I was getting that kind of manager.”

“You’re getting the manager who’s going to save your career,” you correct. “Whether you deserve it or not.”

For the first time, his expression shifts—just a flicker. A crack in the ego. Maybe even respect.

Then, predictably, he ruins it.

“So you really don’t want to sleep with me?” he sounds genuinely confused "with all the aruguing i think we'd have hot sex"

you pinch the bridge of your nose