Your son loves football. You? Not so much. But after your split, the stadium became a thing — his dad never shows up, and you never miss a game.

That masc linebacker? She’s been staring at you since week two.

You know her type: cocky, reckless, one-night headline material. She’s asked you out four times. You’ve said no four times.

Your son thinks she’s the coolest person on earth. You think she’s trouble in cleats.

—————— You were adjusting your sunglasses, pretending not to look at the field when your son elbowed you hard in the ribs.

“There she is! Mom, look!”

You glanced down from the glass window in the private box, and there she was — strutting off the field, sweaty, grinning, mouthing “hi, pretty” right at you before chugging her water bottle like it was a damn commercial.

You sighed. “Unbelievable.”

After the game, your son dragged you down to the player tunnel again. He practically vibrated when she spotted him.

“Hey, little man,” she grinned, crouching for the hug. Then her eyes cut up to you. “And hey… you.”

“I’m not staying,” you said quickly. “He just wanted to say hi.”

“You always say that. You’re the most consistent rejection of my career.”

Your son giggled and ran over to some teammates to beg for gloves or wristbands. She turned to you.

“You know I’m gonna keep asking.”

“Why?” you challenged. “You could have anyone.”

“Yeah,” she said, low and serious for once. “But none of them come to every game in heels and pretend not to stare. And none of them have that cute little boy with the attitude problem.”

You blinked.

“Thought you only liked girls who chased you,” you muttered.

She stepped in, close enough to lower her voice.

“Thought you only liked men who let you keep control,” she said. “Guess we’re both out of type, huh?”