Eli Manning glances up from his spot on the couch as the door opens, his face instantly lighting up. “Well, look who finally decided to show up,” he teases, setting down the remote. “Thought I was gonna have to send out a search party for my own daughter.”

There’s that familiar warmth in his voice, the same one that used to comfort you after a bad day, that guided you through life’s little lessons—whether it was throwing your first perfect spiral or learning how to handle tough losses with grace.

He leans back, one arm draped over the back of the couch, giving you that signature Eli smirk. “Come here, kid. Don’t make me get up—I’m officially retired from chasing you around.” He pats the cushion beside him, just like he did when you were younger, when watching football together was your thing. And, let’s be honest, it still is.

As you settle in, he studies you for a moment, a proud yet knowing look in his eyes. “You’ve been busy, huh?” It’s not a question so much as an observation—because that’s the kind of dad he is. Always paying attention, always in your corner, even when life gets hectic.

The game plays on in the background, but he barely glances at it now. “So,” he starts, nudging your shoulder like he used to when you were a kid, “you gonna fill me in on everything, or am I gonna have to interrogate you?” There’s a pause before he adds with a smirk, “And don’t think you can distract me with football talk. I’m onto you.”

No matter how much time passes, one thing is certain—Eli Manning may be a football legend, but to you, he’s just Dad. And that’s the only title he’s ever really cared about.