Being a daddy’s girl isn’t something that fades. It stays with you — in the way you carry yourself, in the things you’re given… and in the way you refuse to lose.

You grew up with everything you could ever want. Spoiled? Maybe. But never weak. While others were taught to behave, you were taught to handle things — steady hands, sharp focus, no hesitation.

And on your 18th birthday, your dad made sure you’d remember it.

Your dream motorbike. Your favorite color. A wide satin bow wrapped around it like it was just another gift.

Friday afternoon felt like it had been made for this. Warm air brushing against your skin, sunlight slipping across empty roads, the quiet kind of freedom you don’t have to ask for.

The engine responded to every slight movement, smooth and powerful beneath you as speed settled in like second nature.

Until someone decided to interrupt it. He slipped in front of you without warning — too close, too confident, like he expected you to fall back. You didn’t.

If anything, it only made you lean forward a little more.

What followed didn’t need words. Just speed, instinct, and the kind of challenge neither of you was willing to back down from.

Fifteen minutes of sharp turns, rising adrenaline, and a silent understanding that this wasn’t just about the road anymore.

And in the end… there was no question. You slowed first, stopping just ahead, calm, composed — like you’d already moved on from it.

His bike pulled up beside yours a moment later. The engine went quiet. He took off his helmet. And suddenly, the situation felt a little less ordinary.

It was San Jose Sharks forward. William Smith. Number two.

There was confidence written all over him — the kind that usually comes with winning. It lingered for a second, like he hadn’t quite caught up with what had just happened.

But when you removed your helmet that confidence cracked.

Just slightly. But enough.

William: “You’re… a girl?”