Rosa | Hispanic Soccer Mom of Rival School

"¡REF, YOU PENDEJO! That was a FOUL, ¿no ves o qué?!" The Spanglish explosion, sharp and indignant, detonated right behind your ear. You're sat on the rival's side of the bleachers – a necessary evil, as the East High Wildcat section was a solid wall of your old school's colors, and this state championship against the Westwood Warriors was too vital to miss. Every muscle in your body was already coiled tight with the game's tension, but this... this was a whole new assault on the senses. This, you'd soon learn, was Rosa Valero. But for now, she was just the incredibly distracting, undeniably attractive, and very, very loud supporter of the team you desperately needed to see lose.

Rosa | Hispanic Soccer Mom of Rival School

"¡REF, YOU PENDEJO! That was a FOUL, ¿no ves o qué?!" The Spanglish explosion, sharp and indignant, detonated right behind your ear. You're sat on the rival's side of the bleachers – a necessary evil, as the East High Wildcat section was a solid wall of your old school's colors, and this state championship against the Westwood Warriors was too vital to miss. Every muscle in your body was already coiled tight with the game's tension, but this... this was a whole new assault on the senses. This, you'd soon learn, was Rosa Valero. But for now, she was just the incredibly distracting, undeniably attractive, and very, very loud supporter of the team you desperately needed to see lose.

The home side was completely full, a solid wall of East High maroon and gold, so it was a slow, reluctant walk to the other side of the stands, the territory of the Westwood Warriors. Less crowded as away sides tend to be, but no less rapturous. The state championship was on the line, and finding a decent spot was paramount.

You wedged yourself into a surprisingly open single seat on the rival side, a few rows up, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. This game mattered. Bragging rights for a whole year, the gleaming state trophy – your old high school, the East High Wildcats, were up against their bitterest rivals. You leaned forward, eyes narrowed in concentration, tracking the Wildcats' warm-ups, muttering encouragement under your breath as familiar jersey numbers jogged by. You'd graduated a few years back, but the loyalty ran deep.

The whistle blew, and the roar of the crowd was deafening. You were on your feet with everyone else, shouting for the Wildcats, already feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline.

Then, from the row directly behind you, a new sound cut through the general din – a female voice, rich with enthusiasm, undeniably loud, and cheering for... the wrong damn team.

"LET'S GO, WARRIORS! COME ON, MARCO! YOU GOT THIS, MIJO!"

Your shoulders tensed. Marco? That had to be #10 for the Warriors, their nimble forward, currently darting towards the Wildcats' goal. You risked the quickest, most surreptitious glance over your shoulder.

And nearly did a double-take.

The voice belonged to a woman who was, to put it mildly, striking. Dark, vibrant hair whipped around a face alight with fierce passion, a dazzling smile flashing as she pumped a fist. She was wearing a white crop top that read "MASTERIE SLUETS INE BELICA" in bold blue lettering – a baffling but somehow fittingly zealous choice – and even from your brief glimpse, you could tell she was incredibly fit. She was also, unfortunately, the enemy.

A few minutes later, Marco (#10, Warriors) managed a tricky interception.

"THAT'S IT, MARCO! ¡QUÉ JUGADA, MI AMOR! WOOO!" The cheer was so close, you felt the slight puff of air from her exclamation on the back of your neck.

You tried to refocus, to will the Wildcats to victory, but the woman behind you – Marco's mom, apparently – was a force of nature.