You win

Westerman - fuck

The field lights shine brightly in the dark stadium, and the full crowd is a sea of baby blue and black. I probably couldn't find an empty seat if I tried. UFN has always gone crazy for football. After all, we are one of the best teams in the nation, ranked third with three consecutive titles, and home to Misha Carter, the 2022 7th overall draft pick. 

Sure, several guys have gone pro, but none comaparable to Misha. I never got to play with the guy since he graduated one year before I started at UFN, but the dude's a legend, on and off the field: 4.0 GPA, community involvement, and a disgusting football player—though I've never spoken to him directly, I despise him. All this pressure to be perfect, to be Misha. It's flattering, but I'm not trying to fill anyone's shoes, never mind those of Misha Carter, now an even bigger NFL star.

Delezar isn't here. In her words, she had "something better" to do. Not that it matters, considering I'm on the bench. Which leads us to where we are now: down by 12 to a mid-pack team in the locker room during halftime.

"We got this. Stay locked in," I watch as our captain, Demarcus, speaks animatedly standing in the middle of the seated players, hyping them up.

That's when Austin's gaze snaps to mine from where hes seated. "Y'know, we wouldn't be in this situation if Westerman didn't get himself suspended." 

"I'm flattered you think I'm an asset." That comment only pisses him off further as he attempts to stand up while Demarcus pushes him back down.

"We're not doing this shit." Demarcus looks between the both of us, and Austin reluctantly looks away. "If we can't do it for each other, do it for the girls you'll get after the game." He finishes, earning a series of "hell yeah's" and banging on the lockers.

+++

After the game, I walk over to the familiar white Audi, seeing that my father is here. He stands at the end of his car, watching me as I approach with his usual stoic expression. I head to the passenger side, glancing back to see him moving toward the driver's seat. A quick flash of emotion crosses his face—his eyes narrow momentarily at something behind me before he hops into the car. I open my door and am about to step in when a voice interrupts me.

"Hey, Steph." I recognize that voice anywhere and am not surprised to see Alix Russell dressed in a short black tank pulled down to show cleavage and a baby blue mini skirt—not the best sight for me in front of my father.

"Sorry, you didn't win," she says sincerely, playing with the bottom of her platinum ponytail. "We totally would've if you were playing," she adds, her light brows furrowing slightly.

"We did win. Did you watch the game?" I reply, and she squints her blue eyes in response.

"I got there late," she chuckles, pushing her ponytail off her shoulder. "I just saw your coach yelling at you guys, and the energy seemed down."

"That's because Truman decided they shouldn't have scored at all." She nods, looking at her long nails for a split second, as if being around the field might have scuffed them up.

"Anyway, I know you're on a bit of house arrest," she whispers the last two words quietly, as if my father isn't intentionally listening to every word being said, "but we should hang out." I'm not oblivious to what that means, especially the way she bats her lashes.

"Not interested, I'll see you around." I offer a short smile before taking a seat in the car.

As I close the door, I see my father's eyes flicker with a mix of approval. The engine starts, and we drive off in silence, no surprise there being we don't speak much, although he comes to all my games and stops by my apartment. It's not necessarily to chat and have coffee, which is why I shoot him a confused look when he clears his throat.

"You don't have to go to Italy." The way he delivers the message tells me it wasn't necessarily his choice but possibly the result of my mom's convincing.

"But I swear to God, one more misstep, and I'll send you off early." His eyes narrow at me briefly before turning back to the road.

The rest of the car ride is silent, but instead of going home, we reach a restaurant I've never seen before, it looks fairly new with a bit of a high end beachy vibe, clearly screaming my mother's pick of places. We make our way inside and almost immediately spot Mom and Sloan sitting at a white four-seater table across from each other.

"What is this?" I ask, and my mom chirps up.

"I had a reservation to go here with a friend who ended up being sick, so I thought it was a great opportunity for us to get out," she smiles. "Plus, I don't want to cook," she admits.

As my father sits down, he offers my mom a softened expression and a kiss on the cheek. His expression hardens when he turns to face me across the table. "One dinner a week." he starts, and my mom's hand finds its way to his back as if patting him on the back for good parenting.

"Dosen't matter when, but one dinner, and the second you skip a week, your home and that apartment of yours will be returned." He finishes, and I nod in agreement.

When the food comes, it's hard to ignore my father's judgmental glances for ordering curly fries instead of a side salad with my wrap, as if my mother and sister aren't sharing three fried appetizers between the two of them.

He looks away, choosing not to take the first shot. "You have a girlfriend?" he asks, and the table falls silent. Clearly, he saved his bullets for that one.

"Are you spying on me?" I bite my fry, my eyes narrowing at his.

"Answer the damn question, Stephan. You're spending all your time around some girl, walking to classes, cafe meetups, attending events, and declining advances. You've never done that before."

"She's not my girlfriend—" I start.

"So what? You're just hanging with another Alix?" He cuts me off, his gaze hard.

"If you're asking if we're having casual sex, we're not." I start causing a nearby waitress to cough and my sister's face to screw up. "We haven't. She's not my girlfriend." I pause. "Yet."

I watch as my mom's eyes light up and my dad's lack thereof.

God, I'm not sure if they're going to buy it or if this would even make my situation better. Sloan cuts in before Dad can respond. "She's the captain of UFN's soccer team—the one I want to be on, Daddy" 

Sometimes, you just gotta love Sloan. I study his expression, his narrowed eyes looking away as he takes a bite of his stake.

"That's respectable," he states. "Maybe this will do you some good." He exhales, as if giving me any acknowledgment is a gut punch.

I nearly jump out of my seat at the prospect that this might actually work.

"Should we expect her next week for dinner?" he asks, but it sounds more like a demand.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck.

"Absolutely," I grit through my teeth.

Fuck.