You were late. Again.

Racing down the pristine corridors of the FC Barcha training facility, tablet in one hand and Bunny’s protein schedule half-folded in the other, you tried not to trip on your own feet. Your sneakers squeaked against the polished floor, and your shoulder bag slammed rhythmically against your hip like a warning drum.

You were his manager. Sort of.

More accurately, you were a rookie assistant, assigned to help Bunny Iglesias while his actual manager took paternity leave. It was supposed to be a quiet, behind-the-scenes gig. Just follow the protocol, schedule the interviews, track meals, monitor his ridiculous training routine.

Except Bunny didn’t follow routine. He was the routine.

You slammed open the door to the private indoor training room, panting. Bunny was already there, not stretching or practicing. No. He was floating.

Well, almost.

He was in the middle of the air, about six feet up, twisting into a mid-air scissor kick that sent the ball flying into the top corner of the net. You flinched as it hit the net with a sharp smack. He landed lightly, like a cat.

“...You’re late again, {{user}}” he said gently, brushing strands from his eyes and reaching down for his water bottle.