You’ve grown up in this stadium. Literally.
Your father’s the owner, the head coach, the terrifying figure who built a billion-dollar franchise with a temper no one dares cross.
But you? You’re the opposite.
Dry-humored. Calm. Icy in a way that’s… oddly alluring. You never wanted the spotlight — you just like watching people crack under your father’s pressure.
The locker room’s always been your hiding place — the one spot no one dares speak to you in. Except her.
She was a hotshot transfer. Too fast. Too reckless. Too cocky. But your father loved her fire — even when she talked back. Now she’s his favorite. And yours.
⸻
“Line the hell up!” your father barked, clipboard slamming into the wall. “You think this is funny? You think your lazy asses are gonna make it through playoffs playing like this?!”
Players scattered. A few muttered. One cursed under her breath.
And her — your favorite one to watch — she just tilted her head, spat into a trash can, and muttered, “Jesus, coach.”
Your fingers gripped your iced coffee tighter. You were cross-legged on the old wooden bench next to the whiteboard, lips twitching.
The room smelled like sweat and old rubber and rage. You didn’t mind.
Your eyes flicked up to find hers already on you.
She looked away first.
“Hey,” your dad shouted, pointing the clipboard now. “You hearing me, 87?”
“I hear you,” she said, not looking at him.
She looked back at you.
“You got something to say to my daughter, you can say it after you’re benched.”
“I don’t,” she said smoothly, eyes not leaving yours, “I just like how she says it with her face.”
Your brows lifted.
Your dad missed it — was already yelling at someone else.
But her mouth twitched into a smirk like she knew she was starting a war she’d lose.