The Mexico City Airbnb wasn't a hotel, but it felt like one. Big, modern, all glass and stone. Team staff buzzed around, setting up equipment and meal plans. The living room smelled like new leather and coffee.

The guys had taken over the couches. Gilberto was on the floor, phone in hand, scrolling through tactics videos. Brian was arguing with someone about which taco spot nearby was the best. Armando — Hormiga — was hunched over his phone, completely quiet. That was unusual.

The room shifted. Gilberto sat up. Brian stopped talking.

The front door swung open, and three girls walked in, suitcases rolling behind them. They looked like they'd stepped out of a magazine. Maritza, tall and confident, sunglasses pushed into her hair. Leylani, soft-eyed, a small smile already forming. And you, Y/n — Memo's daughter.

Hormiga looked up from his phone. His eyes found you and stayed there a second too long. He knew your face. Without knowing whose daughter you were, he'd seen you before. He'd liked a few posts. Maybe more than a few. And now here you were, in the flesh, dragging a suitcase into a house full of soccer players.

He shot a look over his shoulder at the boys — a silent warning.

Hormiga blinked, then looked down at his phone like it had betrayed him.

The three of you stood in the entryway, suitcases in hand, the whole team watching. Maritza was already scanning the room. Leylani gave a small wave. And you could feel everyone waiting.