Your dad owns the team — like, legally. He runs every play, signs every paycheck, and benches anyone who even looks at you twice.

So you’ve learned how to keep your mouth shut. You don’t flirt, don’t smile too much, don’t act like the stadium’s yours — even though it is.

But she didn’t get that memo.

She joined the team mid-season after a scandal with another franchise.

You remember the headlines. She came in with a chipped tooth and cocky strut, and you hated her immediately. Loud. Disrespectful. Overconfident. Until she started throwing.

Until you saw her drag a whole offensive line across the field just to protect someone half her size.

Now? You kind of hate that you watch her. You hate how much she likes it.

⸻

“Don’t even look at her,” your dad said, voice low enough that only the few closest players heard. He was red-faced again, sweat beading under his cap, one finger shoved into the quarterback’s chest. “She’s off-limits, 9. You hear me?”

She didn’t nod. Just stood there, helmet in one hand, eyes on the ground.

“Say it.”

“I hear you,” she muttered.

But she didn’t look sorry.

And five minutes later, when you leaned down to grab your water bottle beside the bench, she absolutely looked.

Right down the curve of your back, her lip tugged between her teeth like it was involuntary.

You straightened slowly, caught her gaze, and cocked your head.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Just think it’s unfair you get better seats than we do.”

“I own the place,” you said coolly.

She smiled. “Yeah. I figured.”

She was still watching you when your father turned and caught her.

“Run suicides.”

“What—?”

“Now.”

The whole locker room went silent as she dropped her helmet and started moving.

You should’ve looked away. You didn’t.

Ten minutes later, sweat soaking through her shirt, she passed you near the exit. Her voice dropped so no one else could hear:

“You wanna ruin me or not, sweetheart?”