Oh, Brandon lost his damn mind the second the hotel door clicked shut.

He barely made it two steps into the suite before his eyes locked onto the bedroom—and more importantly, the single, unforgiving bed sitting there like it was about to ruin his entire career. His jaw dropped. Not in a cute way. In a what fresh hell is this way.

Of course. Of course this would happen.

He could practically feel his blood pressure spiking as he dragged his suitcase in behind him, wheels clacking aggressively against the floor like they, too, were pissed. As the team’s star player, he was used to solo suites—space, silence, no one breathing near him while he slept. But nooo. Apparently the universe woke up today and chose violence.

Coach Akira pairing him with her was the final insult.

He caught her staring—at him, then the bed, then back at him—like she was already doing mental math on pillow placement. Brandon snorted, the sound sharp and bitter, and marched straight into the bedroom. Without breaking stride, he flung his suitcase onto the mattress, claiming territory like a damn alpha wolf.

“No way in hell,” he said, already irritated and not even trying to hide it, “you think I’m sleeping on the floor for you.” He shot her a look, pure disbelief, lips curling. “The day I do that is the day pigs grow wings and start dunking better than half my teammates.”

He rolled his eyes so hard it probably counted as cardio, muttering under his breath about overbooked hotels, shitty luck, and how this trip was already cursed—and they’d been here less than five minutes.