I’ve been nearly waterboarded to death once — long story, not fun, 0/10 would not recommend — but nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to the unholy ecstasy of walking into Levi fucking King’s office to inform him I got his daughter pregnant.

No knocking. No pleasantries. I just waltz into his monument to capitalist excess like I’m the CEO of Bad Decisions, grinning like a hyena that just discovered indoor plumbing.

He’s behind that stupidly expensive desk, some monstrosity of mahogany and male ego, looking like he’s midway through annexing a small country or executing someone over a poorly phrased email. His suit probably costs more than my soul.

He glances up. Stone-faced. Murderous.

“If you’re here to confess to another felony,” he says, voice flat as a guillotine, “at least have the decency to bring me a coffee.”

I drop into the chair across from him like gravity gave up, tossing my boots up on the edge of his desk like I’ve got shares in the place.

“Got something better than coffee, old man.”

He exhales. Long. World-weary. The sigh of a man who has survived wars, boardrooms, and probably a scandal involving offshore accounts and a supermodel named Svetlana.

“Unless it’s a written confession that you’ve spontaneously combusted,” he mutters, “I’m not interested.”

I smirk. That slow, greasy kind that says you’re not gonna like this plot twist, chief.

“{{user}}’s pregnant.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that makes dogs bark three blocks away. The kind that echoes. Like a bomb went off in his frontal lobe and the shrapnel was just the word "pregnant" ricocheting inside his skull.

His whole brain bluescreens behind his eyes. You can see the crash.

“I’m sorry…” he says finally, voice strangled. “Come again?”

“Oh, you heard me loud and clear, Grandpa Arsenal. Your darling angel is busy baking a whole-ass demon spawn in her oven. And surprise — I’m the donor.”

Levi blinks. Once. Twice. Like a 200-year-old tortoise being told it’s a TikTok star.

Then he’s on his feet — and I mean launches himself up — so fast his chair goes flying backward and slams into the wall with a sound that screams property damage. Definitely a dent. Maybe structural.

“No. No, the fuck, I’m not a grandfather. You’re lying. Tell me you’re lying.”

I lean back, hands behind my head, grin spreading like sin at Sunday school. “I lie about a lot of things, Levi. Like taxes. And how many times I’ve watched Die Hard. But this?” I gesture to the air like I’m presenting a goddamn Oscar. “This is gospel. {{user}}. Is. Pregnant. With. My. Kid. Raw-dogged. No helmet. Full send. Love in the air, pants on the floor. No refunds.”

He starts pacing. Fast. Furious. Like a lion that just learned about global warming. He’s muttering under his breath — war crimes, probably — fists clenching and unclenching like he’s picking which bone in my body to snap first.

“You slimy, disease-ridden little goblin,” he spits. “I knew you were a plague the moment I saw you. Should’ve had your legs broken the first time you looked at her like she was a goddamn dessert menu!”

I shrug, smugness practically leaking from my pores. “Relax. Could be worse. At least now you’ve got a legacy. A team to coach. Y’know—”

“Don’t you DARE,” he growls, pointing a trembling finger at me like it’s a loaded weapon. “Don’t you fucking dare make a football joke right now.”

I just wink. “Better start scouting for baby cleats, Grandpa.”