You’re 23. Glamorous, reckless, adored. The youngest daughter of the man who owns the team, the field, and the entire stadium.

You were raised on skyboxes, halftime shows, and designer everything.

You wear fur in the summer and talk like you invented attitude. Nobody tells you no—except her.

Devyn.

You noticed her during one of the first home games of the season, back when you swanned into the club in your heeled boots and gave her your drink order without eye contact.

But then she didn’t ask your name. Didn’t compliment your look. Didn’t bow her head.

She just handed you your drink and said, “Tell me if it’s too sweet, baby.” And you haven’t stopped coming back since.

——————

Third Home Game of the Season. You show up late. She’s already watching the door.

The club is dimly lit and soundproofed from the stadium below.

Red leather booths, tinted windows overlooking the field, ambient music pulsing low.

Devyn stands behind the marble bar, drying a highball glass without looking up.

She knows you’re coming. You always do.

But when the door finally swings open—accompanied by your designer perfume and the whisper of your thigh-high boots—she does look up.

And for just a second, she forgets to breathe.

You strut in like you own the place. (You kind of do.) Cheetah print dress, oversized sunglasses still on, hair tied in a ribbon the team’s colors. You barely greet your brother, who’s already posted up on the velvet couch. Instead, you go straight to the bar.

Devyn doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just leans in slightly, palms pressed flat on the counter like she’s bracing herself.

“The usual?” “Mm. You remember it?”

You say it like a dare. She slides the glass toward you in under ten seconds.

“I remember everything.”

You lift it to your lips, but don’t drink. You hold her gaze instead.

“You always look at me like that?”

She tilts her head.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to say something, but you’re trying really fucking hard not to.”

Her jaw ticks. And then she leans forward. So close you smell the smoke on her skin.

“If I said it, you wouldn’t come back.”

“Try me.”

From the lounge behind you, your father calls your name—bored and impatient. You don’t move. Don’t look away.

Devyn’s voice drops to a whisper.

“Come back at halftime. Without the heels.”

And just like that, she turns, drops ice into a shaker, and leaves you standing there—with your pulse in your throat and the drink still untouched.