all the good girls go to hell

"I suppose they’ll give you a real break now before training starts up again, right, son? Now that the postseason is over, I mean."

You looked up from your plate at Sofia’s father, who was eating calmly at the head of the table. It was a rather young man. No more than 50 years old.

After three years together, having dinner with your in-laws hadn't caused you any irrational panic for a long time. Even so, whenever the man asked about your career, a cold shiver would run down your neck. You didn't even know why; it wasn't as if your stats as a closer were bad.

Maybe it was because his daughter was always insufferable with her jokes about your "good arm action" and "hip movement."

"They’re giving us a three-week window, sir," you replied, setting your chopsticks down on the rest for a moment. "After that I have to report to spring training."

Sofia’s father nodded.

"That’s good. A pitcher needs to clear his head for a while so he doesn't burn out. Especially closers. If you don't take care of that arm your career won't last long."

Beside you, his sweet, innocent daughter (total bullshit) was eating like an angel. A stranger might have seen her there and thought, 'Oh, what a well-mannered girl; she must be the perfect daughter!'

But you knew exactly the kind of demon she could be when she put her mind to it. That night, however, she seemed determined to behave herself.

Or so it seemed.

She set down her chopsticks with perfect delicacy, an elegance befitting the silver spoon she’d been born with.

"That’s only if he manages to switch off," she remarked with a faint smile. "Sometimes all he does is sit there watching videos of his pitches over and over again."

"It’s an occupational hazard," you defended yourself. "You have to analyze your own mistakes."

Sofia’s mother chuckled.

"Don't tease him so much, Hyunseo," she said kindly. Hyunseo—her real name. The name only her parents used. "He just works very hard. Right, Bryan?"

"Of course, ma'am," you smiled diplomatically and took a sip of your water.

"The thing is, sometimes he gets way too obsessed with technique!" Sofia added, her voice soft and playful. "He says the key to a good pitch isn't the arm but the hips, and he spends hooooours in the living room practicing!"

You set your glass back on the table with a slightly harder tap than usual.

There she went again.

"Well... yes, it’s a matter of physics," you said, keeping your tone neutral. "If you don't use your lower body correctly you'll ruin your shoulder."

"Absolutely true," her father nodded, without a hint of suspicion. "The power comes from the lower torso and the legs. It's like volleyball to a point."

"Oh, right… the legs, how could I forget about the legs?" Sofia chuckled and gave you a small, sly smile as she looked at you. "Yeah, he really brags about that. You have amazing stamina in your legs, don't you, my love?"

You clenched your fist under the table.

"You've never heard me complain, have you?" you replied, holding her gaze.

"Oh darling, you make a loooot of faces, and you also complain," her gaze dropped to your lips for an instant. "That amounts to the same thing."

You decided to drop the subject there. Playing along would be a huge mistake on your part, so you simply ignored her.

A grave mistake.

Just as the conversation at the table shifted—and at a moment when she knew she’d catch you completely off guard—you felt Sofia’s knee press against yours beneath the tablecloth.

Now, it might have seemed trivial, but with Sofia nothing was accidental.

Everything that little brat did had a reason behind it.

You glanced at her out of the corner of your eye, hoping it had been an accidental bump, but she didn't even flinch; she kept eating with impeccable composure while her mother asked her about university.

You shifted your leg slightly to break contact. It was useless. Sofia readjusted in her seat and sought you out again, her thigh pressing against yours.

She was determined to play her little game. Bad news.

You kept your back straight. It was best to just enjoy the dinner in silence. Speak only when necessary, since anything that came out of your mouth could be used against you.

Just fuel for the brat.

You heard a faint click under the table. A muffled sound against the rug. You didn't even have time to process it before you felt the sole of her bare foot resting against your calf over your pants.

"Sweetheart, why don't you have a little more?" her mother said, passing her some slices of meat. "You've barely eaten."

"Oh, I'm saving room for dessert, mommy; there's no need," Sofia replied with her unbearable little smile.

Her toes pressed against the inside of your ankle.

"Are you sure? The meat is delicious!"

Sofia’s toes then curled and slid up to squeeze your calf.

She sighed.

"I’m afraid I already filled up on meat before coming here. It was delicious, too, by the way."

You choked on your sip of water. You had to cough into a napkin.

"Are you alright, dear?" her mother asked, looking at you with genuine concern from across the table.

"Perfectly fine," you nodded, wiping your chin with the same napkin.

You glared at Sofia. She responded by extending her leg slightly to rub the sole of her foot against the side of your other calf, forcing you to spread your legs.

You leaned close to her ear.

"What the hell are you doing..." you hissed.

You were completely ignored. You had to shift in your seat and look away.