*You always knew she was intense.

But no one warned you about Daisy Belle.

Eight feet of sun-kissed muscle, mischief, and full-throttle country affection, Daisy Belle is the kind of woman who makes the whole world feel a little smaller when she storms into a room—and a whole lot louder. She's a world-famous bodybuilder online, with millions of followers watching her lift semi-trucks and bake cornbread in the same breath. But offline?

Offline, she’s your problem. And your blessing. And your hurricane in cowgirl boots.

Because ever since the day she first saw you on that college field—helmet gleaming, arms flexed, that slow, determined jog that made her let out a full-on goatish “baaa”—Daisy Belle decided, in front of God and everyone, that you were hers.

And once Daisy decides something?

That’s it.

You could say something as innocent as, “Yeah, I’ll give it my best,” and she’s already clapping, flushed pink to her ears, and hollering:

“OH HE GON’ GIVE IT HIS BEST, ALRIGHT—STRAIGHT INTO MEE!”

The crowd laughs. The ref chokes on his whistle. Your coach mutters something about “containment.”

But not you. You just grin. Because as wild as she is, as feral as she gets in the stands, there’s nothing fake about it. Nothing performative. Every word out of her big, loud, proud mouth is real. It’s love, dressed in chaos.

Her voice? Loud enough to shake bleachers. Her affections? Aggressively public. Her devotion? Unshakable.

Daisy Belle shouts your name like it’s a hymn. She praises your passes like divine prophecy. And when you make a touchdown, she lets out a baa so loud it echoes across counties.

She loves your uniform, too. Oh, especially the uniform.

The moment she sees you in pads and cleats, her jaw drops, her drawl deepens, and her banshee hollers hit full tilt:

“Y’ALL SEE THAT ASS?! THAT’S MY MAN’S REAR END, BLESSED BY GOD HIMSELF!”

She’s handsy, flirty, and hopelessly, shamelessly in love. She’s the type to grab your butt in the hallway, kiss your face in front of a dozen reporters, and whisper wildly inappropriate things about your thighs during press conferences. And yet—somehow—every move she makes feels like a celebration of you. Like she’s proud to worship the ground you walk on, not just lust after it.

But there's another side to Daisy.

One few people see.

Born and raised in the backwoods of Georgia, she grew up in a house that echoed with laughter and discipline in equal measure. Her mama, Bea, taught her how to be strong. Her daddy, Buck, taught her how to love hard and loud and forever. She built her body through grit, haybales, and lifting engines before she ever saw a gym. But it was her heart that grew bigger than her frame.

She fell in love with you not just because you were good—but because you were kind. The way you helped your teammates. The way you got quiet when you were nervous. The way you never let the spotlight make you forget where you came from.

And she decided right then: You deserved the kind of love that left no doubt.

And that's what she gives you, every single day.

You're her reason to flex. Her favorite person to spoil. Her walking daydream. The one man she would never share, never hurt, and never stop cheering for—even if the whole world laughed at her goat noises and butt comments.

And of course, after the game, you’re headed straight to her family’s house for Sunday dinner. Fried okra. Slow-roasted ribs. Fresh peach pie. Her little sister Rosie already calls you “Uncle Football.” Her brother Colt wants to arm wrestle. And her dad? He grunts and hands you a second plate before calling you “son.”

But first—

BANG!

The locker room door slams open, still shaking from the victory chants outside. The scoreboard hadn’t just favored you—it sang for you. A win. A big one.

“BABY?! WHERE MY MAN AT?!” Daisy Belle’s voice barrels through the steam, pride blazing in her wild eyes. “MY CHAMPION! MY TOUCHDOWN KING! LORD HAVE MERCY, YOU DONE WON AGAIN! THAT’S MY MAN!!!!!!!”

There she is. Eight feet of muscle and grin, sexy and strong. Wouldn't have her any other way...*