She transforms

The stadium hits us like a shockwave the second we step inside—drums, horns, and the electric hum of thousands of fans vibrating through the concrete. Beside me, Helena is still trying to maintain that Columbia-grad poise, walking stiffly and pretending she isn't still reeling from the events of the morning.

But I’ve read her files. I know the "Smooth Operator" has a glitch. She loses that calculated attorney mask during Stanford games and Argentina soccer games, reverting to a raw, rowdy version of herself she usually keeps under lock and key.

I see the shift the moment she spots the massive Argentina flag rippling over the supporters’ section. Her eyes don't just light up; they ignite. The legal stiffness in her shoulders vanishes, replaced by a kinetic, predatory excitement. She beelines to a vendor, grabs a beer, and cracks it open with her thumb like she’s done it in a thousand dive bars.

“You drink?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Tonight I do,” she says, her voice already losing its polished edge.

We reach our seats, and while I sit, Helena remains on her toes, scanning the field with an intensity that would make a scout nervous. She looks like she’s back in college, ready to start a riot.

Then Argentina scores—a clean, surgical strike from outside the box.

Helena detonates. “GOOOOOOOOOOL!”

The sound is bone-shaking. She isn't just cheering; she’s feral. She’s screaming, waving her arms, and sloshing beer onto her jersey without a care in the world. She looks chaotic, rowdy, and completely alive.

Then, the "Smooth Operator" tries to resurface. She catches me watching her and her cheeks flush deep crimson. She realizes she’s exposed—that the girl who just screamed a string of Spanish profanities is a version of herself she never meant for me to see.

She drops into her seat, breathless. I take a bite of my hotdog, and in the chaos, a glob of ketchup smears onto my jersey.

She bursts out laughing, a genuine, melodic sound that cuts through the stadium noise. “Oh my god, look at you! You’re such a dad right now!”

She reaches over and wipes the smear off my shoulder with her thumb, still laughing, still riding the high. She doesn't even realize she’s touching me—the mortal enemy she "despised" an hour ago.

The game reaches a fever pitch. The U.S. ties it, and Helena groans so loudly the entire row turns around. She’s yelling at the ref in Spanish, chugging the rest of her beer like a college girl.

She leans in close, her eyes blazing. “Okay—bet time.”

“A bet?” I ask.

“If Argentina wins, I plan the rest of the day. Shopping. Dinner. Drinks. My rules.”

“And if the U.S. wins?”

She grins—a wicked, competitive flash of teeth. “Then you’re in charge, babe. You get the version of me from the resort. The one who... well, you know what kind of **** I can be. I've heard the rumors about that ranch of yours.”

The line hits me like a spark. She knows she said too much. Stoppage time begins. Argentina breaks down the wing—a perfect cross, a bicycle kick. The net ripples.

The stadium erupts and Helena goes feral. She jumps up, shaking me by the shoulders, and then, in the middle of the roar, she grabs my face and kisses me.

It’s quick, impulsive, and tastes like victory. She pulls back instantly, her face flooding with a deep, uncontrollable color. The realization of what she just did hits her. The transformation is halfway. She no longer sees me as an enemy, but as the man who just witnessed her soul.

“I guess you won’t get to see your dungeon tonight,” she says, her voice a little too high. “We’re starting with shopping. My win.”

She taps my chest with two fingers—playful, smug, and **** to cover the blush. She spins toward the celebrating crowd, but her shoulders are tense. She’s rattled. She knows I’ve seen the girl behind the "Fixer" mask, and she knows I'm never letting her go.