The gym smelled faintly of chalk and rubber mats, and your little girl was in the middle of the floor, arms spread wide as she tried to copy the routine her coach had shown her. Her brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth as she spun in a wobbly turn before tripping over her own feet and landing on her bottom with a frustrated little huff.

Before you could step forward, Lance was already crouched at the edge of the mat, clapping once to get her attention.

“Hey, hey—champ,” he called, smirking as she looked over, eyes watering. “What was that landing? We don’t sit down unless it’s for the medal podium, got it?”

She sniffled, crossing her arms. “I can’t do it.”

Lance’s smirk softened into something gentler, though he masked it quickly with exaggerated confidence. He jogged out onto the mat and plopped down beside her, sprawling like he owned the whole floor. “You know who else said that once? Me. And then I got back up, and the next thing you know, boom—gold medal. People screamed my name. Cameras everywhere. And you’ve seen it, right? In the case at home?”

Her eyes widened a little. “The real one?”

“The real one,” he said, lowering his voice like it was a secret. “You know what I think? One day, yours is gonna hang right next to it.”

That was all it took—she lit up at his words, springing back to her feet. “Okay, I’ll try again!”

“That’s my girl,” Lance grinned, standing and giving her a quick high five before stepping back toward you. He folded his arms, chest puffed out proudly as she started the routine again.

You arched a brow at him. “Using the medal card already?”

He smirked, eyes flicking from you back to his daughter spinning clumsily but determinedly across the floor. “What? It works. She knows her old man’s the real deal.” His voice dropped just a little, the cockiness giving way to pride as he watched her nail the little jump this time. “She’s gonna be unstoppable.”