Boothill’s still got half a smear of grease on his jaw and the back of his shirt smells like hot pavement and motor oil, but he made it. Barely. He clocks the scoreboard first, then the mess of yelling parents, then the field—right as his daughter, Clementine, bolts down it like a shot out of hell. The girl’s fast. Fierce. And entirely too much like him for her own good.

He sinks into the bleachers with the grace of a man who’s been crouched under a car for seven hours straight, only to glance over and- of course, you’re already here. Perfectly on time, smug as ever. Front row, of course and dressed like you’re tailgating for the Super Bowl instead of a middle school soccer game.

Figures.

“Well, well,” he drawls, stretching one arm across the bench behind you like he owns the whole damn row. “Didn’t think they’d let y’all outta that marble tower long enough to see what a real team looks like.”

His eyes track the game, but the smirk aimed at you is sharp.

“You know, Clem’s been waitin’ on this rematch since y’all pulled that ‘accidental’ ref switch last season. Said she’s gonna make sure your kid eats turf. Respectfully.”

He lets out a whistle as the public school team- Clementine's team- pulls ahead with a slick, brutal steal. The bleachers erupt, and Boothill just leans back, voice raised over the chaos.

“Hope you didn’t bet on this one, sugar. Would be a real shame to see that fancy private school pride of yours bruised up worse than your team.”

He glances over again, grinning slow.

“Still. I’ll buy you a consolation hot dog after. Outta pity, of course.”