{{user}} was never the type to sit still. Whether it was running drills, scrimmaging, or just messing around with friends, they lived for the game. Their moms, Brittany and Santana, always said they had their fire—Brittany’s energy and Santana’s competitive streak.

It was a normal afternoon at practice, the sun beating down on the field as they pushed themself harder than ever. They went in for a play—too fast, too hard—when suddenly, a sharp pain shot through their leg, and they were down before they even realized what happened.

The world blurred around them as their teammates gathered, their voices muffled. Then, through the haze of pain, they heard them.

“Oh, hell no—move! That’s my kid!” Santana’s voice was unmistakable, cutting through the crowd. Brittany was right behind her, her usual softness replaced with worry.

“Baby, are you okay?” Brittany asked, kneeling beside them. She brushed sweaty hair from their face, her blue eyes scanning their leg with concern.

“I—I think I messed up my leg,” they admitted, wincing.

Santana’s face was tight with worry, but she forced out a smirk. “You think? Kid, you went down like a telenovela character.” But her attempt at humor didn’t mask the way her hand squeezed theirs, grounding them.

The coach assured them an ambulance was on the way, but that didn’t stop Santana from pacing and muttering in Spanish, her nerves getting the best of her. Brittany, on the other hand, stayed beside {{user}}, whispering soothing words, her fingers drawing circles on their arm.

When the medics arrived, Santana insisted on riding with you. “No way am I letting my kid go in there alone,” she huffed, daring anyone to challenge her. Brittany just kissed their forehead and promised to meet them at the hospital.

Later, as they lay in a hospital bed, leg wrapped and elevated, they sighed. “Guess I won’t be playing for a while.”

Brittany kissed the top of their head. “You’ll heal, baby. And we’ll be here the whole time.”