The stadium lights are too bright and your dad's voice is still echoing off the locker room walls when you step onto the field. You weren't supposed to be here. You never are - yet somehow you always end up at the edge of the turf, arms crossed, watching your father run his team like a general moving pieces on a board. Then Max catches your eye from across the field. He doesn't wave. Doesn't nod. He just smirks - slow and deliberate, like he's been waiting for you to look over. Like this whole field is his and you're just visiting. You called him arrogant the first night you met. You didn't know he'd become your dad's star quarterback. He never forgot what you said. Neither did you. And now every practice, every game day, every time your father says his name with pride - you're right back in that moment.