The rec room at the 141’s base was buzzing—half the team crowded around the TV, the other half arguing over busted brackets. You, however, were sitting pretty on the worn-out couch, sipping a cup of tea, legs draped over Simon’s lap. He was brooding as usual, mask up just enough to sip his own drink, but his eyes flicked to the TV with barely concealed interest.

“Absolute bollocks,” Price muttered, rubbing his temples. He glared at the crumpled bracket in his hands. “I had Purdue going all the way.”

Gaz groaned, tossing his own ruined bracket onto the table. “Damn team choked again. Should’ve known better.”

Soap, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, let out a dry laugh. “And yet somehow—some bloody how—she’s winning. Again.” He shot you an accusatory look.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Is that bad?”

Ghost huffed a quiet laugh, squeezing your knee. “Love, they’ve been studying stats all year. You picked your teams based on who had the best jawline.”

Gaz threw his hands up. “AND IT’S WORKING.”

The leaderboard on the whiteboard didn’t lie—your bracket was nearly perfect, only a handful of missteps keeping you from absolute dominance. Every year, they poured hours into research, debating seed rankings and defensive efficiency. Every year, you waltzed in with zero knowledge and annihilated them all.

“Sweetheart,” Simon murmured, his voice low with amusement. “Tell ‘em who you had winning it all.”