The second match was intense.

Bruce was determined this time, all silent focus and subtle grins, trying to psych you out with those smug little “is that all you got?” looks.

But you? You were out for blood.

You juked him, spun under his reach, and took off across the lawn like your life depended on it. The ball slammed into the end zone (okay, a flowerbed) and you threw your arms up like an NFL champ. “Boom! That’s what I’m talking about!”

Bruce jogged over, mock-annoyed, slightly winded, hair a little messy. “You really just won’t let me have anything, huh?”

You turned with a dangerous glint in your eyes, wiping a streak of grass from your cheek. “Oh, you can have something.”

He raised a brow. “Name your prize then. Winner gets whatever they want, right?”

You walked up to him, placed your hands on his chest, looked dead serious.

“I want the McLaren.”

Bruce blinked. “The McLaren?”

You nodded. “Keys. Title. Custom license plate that says ‘TOY 4 Y/N.’”

He stared at you for a long beat. Then exhaled a laugh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are insane.”

“And you’re in love with me, so cough it up, billionaire.”

“…I’m getting you a tricycle.”