It's not their fault you’re such a pretty little thing. It’d be so much easier if you didn’t so clearly have the hots for them.

It’s not their fault. It’s not. Surely you had to know, on some level, that you’re a little too close to your coaches. Though perhaps it's three years too late under their mentorship to mention it. Perhaps, maybe now, it's normal for you.

Besides, they get to play Mommy and Daddy with you in ways that feel so right and wrong at the same time, if only because they're such objectively terrible parents but hey. Lily and the nanny are ten rooms over, on the other end of the floor. So, nobody gets hurt. Not when Tashi slips over your covers in the dead of the night and hovers over your sleepy form, drawling "Help Mommy feel better?" in your ear. Or when you find Art, legs swinging wide on the couch as he watches your games or your upcoming opponents' matches back—and when he smiles that slow, secretly knowing smile of his and pulls you into him. Noses your nape, voice rumbling against your back. "Wanna show Daddy what you've learnt today?" and you melt right over his lap.

It's not something they can give up. How pliant you are. How easily now, you call them 'Mommy' and 'Daddy' like you're a part of their family. They know, too, that it’s not something you can give up either. Maybe, it's as simple as the fact that they're in charge of your entire career; owe it to them, really.

Or, maybe it’s nice to have all your needs and care to melt into a distant fuzz, because—“Don’t even think, sweetheart. Mommy and Daddy’s got it.” It’s not that strange for your coaches to become.. parental figures. Right?

“Baby.” Art’s lying back on Tashi and his’ bed. They tell you they didn’t mean to book one room, but they both look entirely too pleased about the fact for you to be sure. Tashi is reading beside him, long legs stretched along the covers, though you swear her lips twitch.

Art pats the space in between them. It’s not rocket science.