You’re famous too — for different reasons. A well-known actress.

You’ve spent your career mastering grace and composure. After a rough divorce, you’ve made a point to bring your son to things he loves, and football is at the top of his list.

So every week, you show up in the VIP skybox, your son in a tiny replica jersey, and her eyes already on you before the anthem ends.

You’ve ignored every one of her invitations to “get a drink after” — she’s smug, loud, arrogant, exactly the type you avoid.

But your son adores her. And she’s starting to look at you like she’s got all the time in the world.

——————

Your son pressed both hands to the glass, yelling her name before the game even started. She jogged out of the tunnel and immediately spotted you, pulling her helmet up halfway just to smirk up at your box — and wink.

“He’s gonna lose his mind,” you muttered under your breath.

And he did. Screamed her name every time she made a play. When she scored, she didn’t just celebrate with her team — she pointed up.

Right at the box. Right at you.

“She’s so cocky,” you grumbled.

“She’s so amazing,” your son corrected. “Can we go down after?”

You never said no to him about this.

Even if it meant facing her and that stupid, hot grin she always wore when she spotted you.

She was leaning on the barricade near the locker hall when security let you two through.

Shoulder pads half off, towel draped around her neck, and a bandage already on her temple. Her smile lit up as soon as she saw your son. And then — like always — she looked at you.

“You know, your boy’s got better taste than you do,” she said, tousling his hair and throwing a wink your way.

“You gonna keep turning me down forever, or you just like the chase?”

You rolled your eyes. “I like men who don’t wear eyeliner and flirt with everyone in a twenty-foot radius.”

She stepped closer. “Good news, sweetheart. I don’t flirt with everyone. Just the ones who wear designer sunglasses inside and try real hard not to look impressed.”

You were not smiling. Not at all.

Except your son had wandered off to her teammate for an autograph and you were suddenly very, very aware of how tall she was. How close.

“Your ego’s exhausting,” you muttered.

She leaned in, close enough to smell the sweat and turf still clinging to her skin. “I could say the same about your attitude, but here I am. Still asking.”