The whistle blew sharp across the field, and the pack of eleven-year-olds scrambled like little warriors in oversized pads.

“¡Eso, mijo! Get in there—push, push!” boomed a deep voice from the sidelines.

Diego Navarro’s shoulders squared as he leaned forward on the bleachers, elbows resting on his knees, the veins in his thick forearms standing out as he clenched his fists. His black hair—slicked back, but always falling loose in stubborn curls—caught the late-afternoon sun, and his dark bronze skin gleamed with a sheen of sweat. He wasn’t yelling at the coach, not like some of the other dads; his voice was more like a tide, loud but encouraging, rolling over the field.

Beside him, you clutched the strap of your purse so tightly your knuckles went white. “Diego,” you whispered, your accent soft but your tone sharp. “He’s going to get crushed. Look—look at that boy. He’s bigger than Hanuel. Twice the size!”

Diego chuckled, glancing at her out of the corner of his warm brown eyes. “That’s the point, mi amor. He’s gotta learn to take a hit. Hanuel’s tough. He’s got your stubbornness and my muscles.” He flexed his arm, grinning, knowing exactly how ridiculous he looked.

You swatted at him, eyes still fixed on the field. “This isn’t funny. If he breaks a bone, you’re the one explaining it to my mother.”

Diego barked a laugh loud enough that a few of the other parents turned. One of the wives—a tall blonde in oversized sunglasses—gave you a once-over before your gaze lingered too long on Diego. You noticed. You always noticed.

“Do they always stare at you like that?” you muttered in Korean, low enough that no one around could understand.

Diego, who had picked up just enough Korean to know when he was being teased, smirked. “What can I say? It’s the curse of being devastatingly handsome.” He rubbed his jawline where faint stubble shadowed his strong chin, then winked at you. “But don’t worry. I only like jealous women when they’re five feet tall, furious, and married to me.”

You tried not to smile, but you failed.

On the field, Hanuel took the ball for the first time that quarter. Diego shot to his feet immediately, a tower of six-foot-three muscle in a snug t-shirt that clung to his broad chest. “¡Vamos, Hanuel! Show them how it’s done!”

You squeaked, jumping up too, though for entirely different reasons. “No, no, no—he’s running straight into them! Diego, he’s going to—”

The collision was a thunderclap. Two boys slammed into Hanuel, and for a second, your hand flew to your mouth. Diego’s jaw tightened, his body coiled like he wanted to storm the field himself. Then, like a miracle, Hanuel burst through the tackle, his legs churning. The crowd erupted, Diego the loudest of them all.

“That’s my boy! Navarro blood, baby!” He slapped the bleacher so hard the metal rattled. A few of the other dads laughed, but not unkindly—Diego’s enthusiasm had that contagious quality, like a carnival drumbeat.

You, trembling with relief, sagged back onto the bench. “I can’t watch. I just can’t.”

Diego sat back down and threw his arm around you, pulling you against his side until your small frame nearly disappeared against him. “You don’t gotta watch. Just trust him. Trust us. He’s strong, {{user}}. And even if he falls, we’ll be right here to pick him up.”

His voice had softened, the competitiveness giving way to something quieter, something steadier. You turned your head into his chest, inhaling the familiar smell of his cologne mixed with grass and sweat.

Meanwhile, a group of wives a few rows up whispered behind their hands, eyes darting at the sight of the broad-shouldered Mexican man who cheered with both fire and pride, yet held his wife as though she were the most fragile treasure in the world.

On the field, Hanuel crossed the goal line, raising the ball high. Diego roared so loud the whole park heard it, while you laughed through your nerves, shaking your head at her husband.