Tayvis One-Shots

bet?

Taylor's POV

Taylor's laugh echoed through the living room, and I swear it could have melted ice. She was lounging on the couch, phone in hand, looking smug as ever. I couldn't help but grin, even though I had no clue what had her so amused.

"You're awfully quiet over there," I called out, tossing the football in my hands like it was no big deal.

She didn't even glance up, just smirked at the screen. "Just reading something interesting."

I raised an eyebrow, catching the ball mid-air. "Interesting how?"

"Interesting as in, apparently, quarterbacks run more than tight ends."

That made me freeze. "Hold on. What?"

She finally looked up, her blue eyes absolutely sparkling with mischief. "That's what it says. Quarterbacks put in more effort. Stats don't lie."

Stats don't lie? That was a challenge if I ever heard one. I set the ball down, standing up with every intention of setting her straight. "You better let me see that because there's no way that's true. Tight ends do everything, blocking, catching, running routes. Quarterbacks don't even come close."

Taylor didn't back down. She just held up her phone, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in a taunting grin. "Oh, but they do. Want to see the proof?"

"Yeah, hand it over," I said, making my move.

But of course, Taylor had other plans. She yanked the phone away, holding it just out of reach as she laughed. "Nope!"

I narrowed my eyes, shaking my head. "Alright, we're doing this?"

She nodded, her expression daring me.

With a quick move, I grabbed her wrist, holding it gently but firmly. "Let me see the so-called stats."

"Nope," she said again, twisting in an attempt to get away. Her laughter was infectious, and even though I was determined to win, I couldn't help but smile.

Finally, I managed to snag the phone, holding it up like a trophy. "Gotcha."

Taylor crossed her arms, sticking out her bottom lip in a dramatic pout. "Fine. Keep it. But for the record, I think quarterbacks are overrated."

My jaw dropped. She did not just say that.

"You've got some nerve," I said, leaning closer. "Overrated?"

She leaned back on the couch, looking completely unbothered. "You heard me."

"Oh, I heard you," I said, crossing my arms and towering over her. "But now you've got to back that up. Let's make a bet."

Her eyes narrowed, intrigued. "What kind of bet?"

"If I can prove that tight ends work harder, you have to admit I'm the best player in the league."

"And if I win?"

"You won't," I shot back confidently.

"Humour me."

"If you win," I said, leaning down so we were eye level, "I'll do whatever you want. No complaints."

Her smirk grew, and she extended a hand. "Deal."

Taylor raised an eyebrow as if she'd already won, her confidence radiating like the spotlight at one of her shows. "Alright, big guy," she said, leaning back into the couch with a smirk. "How exactly do you plan on proving your case? Enlighten me."

I sat down next to her, still clutching her phone triumphantly. "Easy. I've got years of game footage, personal stats, and the fact that tight ends don't just run plays, they create plays. We're the backbone, the workhorses."