River @waste-landerr - Tumblr Blog

Apr 9

➹ which could mean nothing - part 4

➹ pairing: shauna shipman x fem!reader / eventual jackie taylor x fem!reader

➹ additional tags/warnings: no crash, enemies (one-sided) to friends to lovers, college au, mentions of cheating, slow burn, underage drinking, suggestive content

➹ summary: despite all the years spent hating her, you find yourself falling in love with jackie taylor. it doesn't mean anything, you desperately repeat — but it gets harder to believe it when you're forced to bunk together for an away game.

➹ word count: 12.4k

part 3 - part 5 - fic masterlist

From the quiet way you sat in the corner of the locker room, headphones on and a focused look on your face, an outsider might think you were preparing for the World Cup.

Your knee bobbed nervously, the skin on the back of it touching the cold surface of the bench as November passed by, the sounds of chatter muffled by the loud music in your ears.

A pre-game ritual, one you saved for official matches only — this time used before a mere practice with the Scarlet Knights. With your first season ever playing for a division 1 college team nearing its peak, you deemed it best to pull out all the stops: you’d played well so far, and the team was ranked in a high enough position, but, in everybody else’s eyes, you were still one of the new kids. That meant you wouldn’t be caught dead slacking off during practice, not when the tiniest flaw could get you cut off from the next match.

So you kept the ritual going, hoping it would trick your head and body into playing well, going over the next steps in your brain.

Jersey, washed and pressed. A tight enough ponytail. The faithful pair of gloves hanging from the waistband of your shorts like they belonged there.

What else? What else…?

Oh, you thought to yourself as you went through your toiletry bag, catching a glimpse of the little white bottle there, of course. The sunscreen.

The sky was gray outside, and it was cold — but, apparently, you were supposed to wear it even then. To avoid looking like a prune, that raspy, amused voice echoed in your head like a mantra.

“Keep it in your bag,” Jackie had said a few weeks before, handing the bottle over to you. “So you don’t forget anymore.”

Jackie, who now stood over by the lockers, casually chatting with Josie while adjusting the laces on her cleats.

You squeezed out a few drops of sunscreen onto your fingertips, absently spreading it around your face, suddenly forgetting your pre-practice nerves as your eyes found their captive spot for the past few weeks.

Jackie’s hair swung as she leaned her head back in a laugh, face catching the sober lighting of the locker room in a way that could only be described as ridiculous. Her jaw was sharp, sculpted, lips full and heart-shaped like God had been in a good mood when He drew her, eyes shining with carefree joy — still hazel and doe and gigantic, still taking up half of her face.

Beautiful, that was the only word that came to mind, that was the thought you’d spent the better part of a month trying to push away from your head now.

Not that the thought in itself was a problem — after all, finding Jackie beautiful didn’t make you special. At this point, her captivating looks were already established as a known fact, something that transcended personal opinions and points of view, an absolute, unarguable truth: Jackie was just as beautiful as the sky was blue. That had never been a question. That you had never had trouble seeing.

The real problem was in the little things you started to notice, the ones that had been piling up against your will in that forbidden chest that lay locked away in the back of your head ever since the night of that fucking party. You see, it was one thing to look at the lips and the hair and the eyes and think that they looked good — that was fine. That was logical. What was not fine (let alone logical) was to want to kiss the lips, and to want to thread your fingers through the hair, and to want the eyes to look back into yours.

Still, even if it was highly inappropriate, even if it sent you into a spiral of guilt and self flagellation to see your friend like that, maybe you could trick your brain into being somewhat okay with the physical aspect of it. Looking, admiring, wondering — it wasn’t exactly right, but it wasn’t really harmful either. A consequence of Josie’s words, you could tell yourself, the fruit that naturally rose from the seed she planted, and you were only human.

But how could you explain the way you laughed at her jokes? The way you actually found them funny? How could you explain the pang in your chest whenever she patiently waited for you to finish packing up your stuff after class so you could walk to the dining hall together? How could you explain the warmth that filled your heart whenever you looked at that fucking bottle of sunscreen in your bag?

The sheer irony of it wasn’t lost on you — all those years mentally cursing Shauna and the entire population of Wiskayok for being so head over heels for the girl, for watching her every move, for drooling over everything she did.

And look at you now.

Speaking of Shauna, at least the drunken conversation you’d had with Jackie the night of the party served as something more than an igniter for the confusing feelings you’d been having — it was also the welcome, anticipated, well-deserved closing of a door that had been half-open for a while now. (A closet door, if you will, and you had no intention of going back in.)

Now, when you thought of Shauna, finally the puppy brown eyes and the late night jokes in her room weren’t what came to mind anymore — instead, all you saw were her flaws, her mistakes, the image of pure desperation and lack of self respect. The lingering hint of indignation for what she’d done to you, for what she’d done to Jackie, a pill you knew you wouldn’t be able to swallow for a little while. Still, at least you didn’t love her anymore. At least you were finally, finally free.

Or so you thought, as Jackie caught your eyes from across the room — her expression softening, a little smile popping up on the corner of those lips, her feet already starting to move your way. A horrible moment for The Smiths to obnoxiously echo through your ears, Morrissey singing the words you could have written yourself, the Universe once again giving her the perfect soundtrack.

You took off your headphones, making a mental note of deleting I Want the One I Can’t Have off your pre-game playlist.

“What’s up with you today?” She asked, standing right in front of you now, looking down at your figure. “You’ve been, like, super weird. Even more than usual,” the joke landed with a nudge to your shoulder and a grin, easy, lighthearted.

That was the new normal, the proximity, the friendliness. The growth of the bond you two had strengthened the night of the party.

You ignored the thoughts, the forbidden ones, and offered her a casual smile.

“Just… trying to get in the zone,” you offered. Not exactly a lie. “You know. Making sure I don’t suck out there and get my ass benched next game.”

She chuckled, sinking onto the spot next to you.

“So we’re being paranoid today,” her voice was that slightly raspy tone you’d already learned by heart. “Relax, Brick Wall. I’m sure you’re not gonna get your ass benched.”

“I’m not paranoid,” you countered. “It’s just a little… harmless worrying.”

“You’re gonna go fully gray by the time you’re thirty,” she joked. “With all the harmless worrying.”

You chuckled, letting some of the tension leave your shoulders, the paradoxical effect of Jackie’s presence making your muscles relax and your heart race at the same pace.

“Let’s hope I can pull it off.”

Unaware of how it made you want to duck behind the nearest wall, Jackie answered:

“You know what? I could see that,” she leaned a bit closer, friendly, casual. “You’d make a cute old lady.”

That’s normal, you thought to yourself, ignoring the pang in your stomach, refusing to let your mind go there. You’d make a cute old lady because old ladies are cute, period. Not because Jackie thought you, specifically, were cute. She probably didn’t — of course she didn’t, it meant nothing, you didn’t even know where she stood when it came to her own sexuality. Was she even gay? Was she bi? Did the whole thing with Shauna mean anything beyond a confusing, unspoken, very intense teenage questioning phase?

Pulling you out of your inner spiral, Jackie snapped her fingers in front of your face.

“Hey!” She called out, laughing a little, seemingly unbothered. “Earth to Y/N. God, you’re really just out of it today, aren’t you?”

You blinked, smiling and nodding as your cheeks burned.

“…Yeah. Sorry. Just, you know…” You shrugged. “A little nervous.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” her tone was warmer now, less playful, but just as light. “You’ve been killing it so far. Just… try not to get in your head so much, you’re good at this.”

You let out a long sigh, shaking the tension off, willing yourself to stop freaking out. Jackie was right, you were good — you were on a goddamn soccer scholarship for a reason —, and you were sure that whatever weird tingle you felt in your spine whenever she was around would turn out to be nothing more than a little crush. And, soon, it would go away. And you’d be fine.

“Thanks,” you smiled, letting yourself believe it. “I’ll stop overthinking.”

“Good.”

For a moment, it felt like it could be true.

Then, Jackie’s eyes fell on the side of your face.

“Hey, you’ve got a little…”

She leaned closer before you could react, hand reaching for you, fingers meeting the pulled up hairs on the back of your neck as her thumb gently brushed your cheekbone.

“Sunscreen,” she explained, spreading it across your skin with a few torturously soft strokes before pulling away. “There. Glad to know you’re making use of it.”

You swallowed back the breath you’d been holding, giving your best shot at a nonchalant chuckle.

“Yeah, well, I’m already going gray soon,” you joked, hoping it would land, “I’m not sure I can rock the whole prune look along with it.”

With a sarcastic eyeroll, Jackie laughed at your words — thank God.

“That would be pushing it,” she stood up, the grin still on her face, hands moving up in a lukewarm cheer as she looked at you. “Come on. Let’s… fucking do this. Go, Scarlet Knights.”

You raised a brow, snorting at her half-assed enthusiasm, getting up with an exaggerated push of your knees.

“Go, Scarlet Knights.”

And, with the ghost of Jackie’s touch still burning your cheek — with the traces of her still radiating from the back of your neck all the way to the tip of your toes as you kept telling yourself it meant nothing —, you followed her out to the field.

“Neuroscience is not nearly as exciting as I thought it was gonna be,” Jackie said unceremoniously, aimlessly sliding through flashcards on her tablet with a bored expression on her face.

The two of you studied (or you studied while she whined incessantly) in your dorm, Jackie sprawled out across your bed, you cross-legged on the floor amidst a pile of handwritten notes.

You let out a chuckle at her statement, cataloguing that as her fourth of fifth complaint over the span of no more than ten minutes.

“I think it’s kinda interesting,” you countered, amused, holding back a laugh as Jackie groaned in frustration.

“Of course you do,” she huffed, rolling off her stomach and onto her back, “you’re a nerd. You’re supposed to think shit like that is interesting.”

This time, you did let out that laugh, already growing used to hearing that word come out of the girl’s mouth.

“You know, you’re getting very comfortable calling me that,” you stated, sarcastic, playful.

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s true. You really… go against the whole dumb jock stereotype,” she rolled her eyes. “It’s annoying.”

The smile didn’t leave your lips for even a second as you raised an eyebrow in her direction.

“Dumb jock,” you repeated, shaking your head. “What, is that a thing that exists outside of old romcoms now?”

“Widely so,” Jackie smirked as she locked the screen of her tablet with a satisfied little click, not hiding her happiness when you took the bait and finally changed the subject away from all those fucking cranial nerves. “You gonna tell me you’ve never met one in your life?”

You shook your head.

“I grew up around soccer girls,” you laughed, “that’s a whole different species of nerd.”

She snorted.

“You know, when you put it like that… can’t really argue there,” then, after a small pause, she gave you an exaggerated nod. “Baseball players,” Jackie tapped the stylus pen in her hand against the unlit screen as if making a serious statement, “that’s where the real stupidity is at.”

You placed your notes on the floor, letting go of the last ounce of hope of getting any work done, crossing your arms as you looked up at her.

“Is that a fact?”

She nodded, proud of the veracity of her words as if she’d personally run a study on the subject.

“Scientifically proven. You’d understand if you’d ever met Jeff,” she tilted her head, “which, you know, I wouldn’t necessarily wish upon you.”

You let out a breathy chuckle.

“Jeff,” the name came out of your lips with absent disdain. “You expected me to fit into that category of dumb jock?”

Jackie shook her head playfully, throwing a gorgeously amused grin your way.

“No, no. You’re nothing like him,” she offered, her smile slowly turning into something cheekier, making her look like a mischievous child. “He’s boring. He’s vain,” she paused, biting her lip. “…He actually got past first base with Shauna.”

The S name caught you off guard at first, abrupt and casual, dropped mid-conversation like she talked about the weather. For a second, you prepared for your heart to drop, for the familiar sour taste in your mouth, for the pain that usually followed.

But none of it came.

Instead… you laughed. Amused. Appreciating the joke, Jackie’s fucked up sense of humor once again aligning perfectly with yours — almost to the point where you let out a sigh of relief as you realized just how removed from the whole Shauna situation you finally were.

The both of you.

“You little shit,” you rolled your eyes, that delicious grin still dancing victoriously across your lips as you threw a crunched up piece of paper at her. “So did you, don’t think I forgot.”

Jackie laughed too, loud and carefree and surprised, returning the attack with a clumsy pillow to your midsection.

“I will not be judged for my past mistakes,” she played, “especially by someone who’s hooked up with Natalie Scatorccio before. I refuse to be mocked like that.”

“Hey. I don’t regret that,” you teased, catching the pillow in the air in prime goalkeeper mode, just a few inches short of your body. “Have you seen her?”

Jackie rolled her eyes, but there was no heat to it.

“Ugh,” she groaned with playful dismissal, the grin still on her face denouncing her, “you realize that puts you in the same category as Travis Martinez, right? Which, honestly, is not such a step up from Jeff.”

You let out a little chuckle, not quite sure of who Travis Martinez was, but not bothering to ask. And as the laughter started to die down, you looked at Jackie, a small smile lingering on your lips.

“You know, he actually rear-ended me once,” you commented, realizing you’d never told her that story before.

Jackie narrowed her eyes, confused.

“Travis?”

You snorted, shaking your head.

“Jeff,” you corrected. “Around the start of senior year. Well, at least I think that was him, I only saw about half the guy’s face before he drove off and called me a bitch.”

You could practically see the lightbulb appear above Jackie’s head in real time.

“You remember what car it was?”

“How could I forget,” you scoffed, the image printed in your brain from how absurd it had been, “just the ugliest truck I’ve ever seen in my life. Lime fucking green, I mean, what’s up with that?”

Jackie let out a loud laugh, propping herself up on her elbows as she threw her head back in pure amusement.

“Oh, my God, that was you!” She squealed as if you’d just told her the funniest thing in the world. “He made up this story about how someone had backed into his precious truck at the 7-Eleven parking lot and then driven off,” she explained between wheezes. “When his dad suggested they pulled the security cameras he practically shit his pants.”

“No fucking way,” you laughed too, the hundreds of dollars you had to pay to get your bumper fixed suddenly hurting less.

“I swear,” she put her hands together, urging you to believe it like her words were way too good to be true. “He was grounded for, like, a month.”

“Ugh,” you groaned in delight, dramatically lifting a hand up to your chest, closing your eyes in what could only be described as true pleasure. “I feel avenged.”

Jackie shook her head, those gorgeous lips giving shape to an ever lingering grin on her face.

“What a fucking coincidence,” she muttered, disbelieving. “I mean— it’s ridiculous, right?”

You matched her expression.

“With the way he was skating through the lanes I don’t think it came as such a surprise.”

She looked over at you, letting out a breathy chuckle, eyes set on your face with deliberate calmness. Her hair, wrapped in a careless updo, caught the warm light from your bedside lamp as two loose strands fell past her forehead and over her cheekbones. It was a vision. Jackie Taylor, beautifully disheveled, painfully domestic, sprawled out across your bed like she owned it, like she belonged.

It meant nothing.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she teased.

Then, Jackie chalked the paper ball you’d thrown at her earlier back at you — but, this time, you weren’t quick enough to catch it.

Maybe the Universe didn’t always hate you, you thought, cleats tapping against the locker room floor as you walked through the big red doors.

Practice that day had been nothing but smooth, and you couldn’t shake off the grin that set itself proudly on your face ever since Coach Hahn herself made a comment about a defense you pulled — “Brick Wall, that’s what I’m talking about!” —, leaving you dumb with a sense of validation someone with absent parents could only get from a stern authority figure like her.

It felt good, you were basically walking on sunshine already, and it only made everything better when Coach Hahn and Coach Pierce willed a few attack players to huddle up in a circle and discuss the next game against Penn State. The pre-game circle, widely known and feared by a legion of Scarlet Knights that came long before you, was a not-so-subtle way for the coaches to show everyone on the team who had been stepping up, who had been leaving an impression, who had been the ones worth watching lately.

And Jackie was in it, just out on the field, while you smiled dumbly about it in the locker room.

Sure, officially it was nothing — just a little talk —, but you knew it meant more. Especially when, historically, it rarely included any of the freshmen, let alone walk-ons. She was doing well, and it was as clear as day.

You chuckled to yourself, taking off your sweaty jersey, feeling the sports bra cling to your back even though it was almost winter. A long way from the clumsy header at that Yellowjackets game, the one she hadn’t even meant to score.

As you slung the black jersey over your shoulder and casually rummaged through your locker for clean clothes, a whispery giggle pulled you from the thoughts, just over by the sinks.

“I mean, not to sound bitter or anything, but hasn’t she been here for, like, two minutes?”

It was low, breathy, classically gossipy — and, well, you were only human. So you stilled your movements, making sure you were out of whoever’s-lips-it-came-from’s sight, naturally curious about the direction of the clearly illicit conversation.

“Right?” Someone not as quiet but definitely as giggly said. “I’m sick and tired of it, it’s always Taylor this, Taylor that. Even Casey seems to just eat up everything she does.”

Then, it clicked: they were talking about Jackie.

You stood still, ear tuned, listening for more.

“Like, she’s not bad, but… the circle?! Really?! I had to wait a whole year to get into that! What does she have that makes her so special?”

Of course, you couldn’t help but think, bitter upperclassmen. Girls who gave Jackie the treatment she’d undeservingly received her whole life: the dismissal, the jealousy, the shit-talking behind her back — all because, deep down, she represented their biggest insecurities, she was the face of everything they wanted and wouldn’t get to have. The thing she’d mentioned more than once most of the girls in high school used to do.

The thing you used to do, back before you knew better, back before you realized just how absolutely stupid you had been all along.

The anger in your chest started to build — toward the gossiping girls for never giving her a chance, toward yourself for having done the same. Toward Shauna, for what she’d done to her, all out of petty jealousy and years of piled up resentment.

“Exactly. She’s not bad, of course…” the second girl cut in. “But I mean… it’s not like she’s that good either, right? To cause such a fucking commotion?”

The condescension in her voice made you want to scream. Was the girl blind? Was she not there watching her play? Did she not see the two goals and the clean receptions and the way she practically flew right past the defense team?

“I know!” The first girl gasped — as if it made sense, as if she was motivated by anything other than obvious envy. “It’s total bullshit.”

“I mean… I don’t wanna be shady, but… she’s kinda pretty,” the second girl said with blatant entitlement, making the blood boil in your veins, “and, at the end of the day, Coach Pierce is still a guy.”

The words made you see red. What kind of fucked up assumption was that? To completely erase Jackie’s talent and hard work and simply reduce her success to… looks? To make it all about the wandering eyes of a fucking man?

“Oh, you’re bad. You don’t think that he would…”

“I mean, it’s not so crazy, is it? He’s a man,” you could practically hear the obnoxious, holier-than-thou smirk on her lips. “Plus, I’m not really sure she’d be all that above it.”

And that was your last straw.

With a loud, careless thud, you slammed your locker shut, making sure they realized they were not alone. Then, walking firm, angry, rough steps, you let yourself be seen — standing right before them, taking in their wide eyes and the flushed expressions on their startled faces.

Bree and Jasmyn, of course. The inseparable fucking seniors who always showed up late and fucked up the set pieces.

You held back the urge to punch something, or someone, and cleared your throat.

“She earned her spot. Same as everyone else.” You imposed yourself, firm, standing taller than you’d ever felt in that locker room amidst all the upperclassmen. “If you wanna make the circle, maybe spend less time talking shit and more working on your dribbling.”

Without waiting for an answer — though you doubted you’d get one, with how low their chins hung —, you turned around, making your way toward the exit. You didn’t care about your plans to use the locker room showers and avoid the dorm ones, you didn’t care about the cold air meeting the drying sweat on your bare skin and making you shiver. You just needed to get out of there — away from the stupid looks on Jasmyn and Bree’s faces, away from their ugly accusations and assumptions, away from your past, from when you might have said something similar out of spite.

So you walked out, slamming the door behind you with lingering rage, expression hardened and jaw tight as you stomped through the hallway.

Then, just a few feet away, giving one of the sophomores who had also been picked for the circle a casual nod, stood Jackie. She seemed cool — calm, composed, perfectly collected for a freshman who’d just gotten the Scarlet Knights’ equivalent of a World Cup nomination, and your heart ached.

She was close enough to the locker room that, if you hadn’t been there to stop it, she might’ve walked right in on the shitshow that had just taken place.

You swallowed, gripping the jersey that hung from your shoulder in hopes it would steady you, putting on a smile because that was the kind of reception Jackie deserved.

“Miss USWNT,” you joked, still a bit stiff, clutching the jersey like a lifeline as your skin shivered from the cold. “Congrats on making the circle.”

Her eyes lit up a little when they met you, but the casualness stayed there, painted across her face as if it were any other day.

“Thanks,” she smiled. In the back, you heard the sound of footsteps, all the other girls who’d been in the circle chatting proudly as they walked into the locker room. “It’s not such a big deal.”

You frowned, confused, taken aback by her dismissive attitude.

“What do you mean it’s not a big deal?” You leaned slightly forward, holding yourself back from checking her forehead for a fever. “You made the circle. It’s a huge deal!”

Then, as the last girl entered the locker room and you heard the sound of the shutting doors, leaving the hallway empty, Jackie’s grin widened.

Quickly enough, her body caught up, cleats practically dancing on the wooden floors as she tapped her feet excitedly.

“Aaah!” She squealed like a child in a sugar rush. “I made the fucking circle!”

In a heartbeat, you softened, a genuine laugh finding your previously tensed face, the frustration leaving your body and giving space to the most painful endearment.

“You made the fucking circle!” You met her with the same level of enthusiasm, doing your own little thing with your hands and feet — both of you now dancing like two schoolgirls. “I’d hug you if I wasn’t so sweaty!”

And, without warning, without waiting and apparently without caring about the lingering sweat on your skin or the lack of a layer of clothing covering your sports bra, Jackie lunged herself into you, arms wrapping so tightly around your neck she nearly tipped you over.

For a moment, your heart stopped. Your arms hung dumbly beside your body, suddenly too heavy, and you barely registered anything other than the warmth of her hands against your cold skin and the smell of vanilla, sweet and intoxicating, clouding your brain like anesthetic gas. It was a lot. Too much, maybe — the close contact, the soft breaths, the fucking touch —, way too much for you to handle without giving yourself up on a silver platter, too obvious for her not to notice.

But, then, she sunk her head into your shoulder, right where your jersey lay. Her forehead met the crook of your neck. Her arms tightened even harder, pulling you closer, almost as if she willed you to just get over yourself and hold her back.

So you obeyed.

Guided by something as strong and inevitable as a force of nature, your arms wrapped firmly around her waist — tight, loyal, unapologetic —, and, for a few seconds, you simply let yourself feel it. You didn’t keep from leaning into her, you didn’t keep from closing your eyes. For once, you didn’t analyze it. You welcomed it.

And Jackie seemed to feel it, fingers pressing into your back, head sinking further into the curve of your neck — like she wanted to stay there instead of pulling away.

The moment was warm, tender, so fucking liberating you wanted to cry — but, at the end of the day, you were you. And you self-flagellized. And you analyzed things.

So, while still keeping Jackie closely tucked between your arms, your face fell, a bitter taste rising within your mouth — because, right then and there, it became impossible to ignore. The weird thing you felt for her? It wasn’t a little crush. And all of a sudden you knew it wouldn’t just go away.

Your jaw tightened as it hit you like a train.

You were in love with Jackie Taylor.

Pros of getting closer and closer to Jackie every day as the weeks went by: she was a good listener. She had a great sense of humor. She was a loyal friend.

Cons of getting closer and closer to Jackie every day as the weeks went by: she was a good listener. She had a great sense of humor. She was a loyal fucking friend.

The listening, the goddamn carefulness with which she heard what you said, all the tiny details you distractedly let out that she seemed to effortlessly pick up on. You’d casually mention you were going through a stressful week and she’d show up at your door with coffee and pastries from Friend’s Café. You’d offhandedly comment on a really good movie you’d watched over the weekend and she’d come to you a few days later with her own review. You’d make a vague, barely noticeable remark about some frat bro who’d been rude to you in class and, all of a sudden, he wouldn’t have a name anymore — he’d simply become whatever cleverly insulting nickname Jackie assigned him.

And the sense of humor. Sometimes loud and fiery, sometimes quiet and subtle — but always quick. Always certain. Always going above and beyond, hazel eyes falling on your face before she even told the punchline, expectantly searching for a hint of a laugh. And when she found it, one showed up on her lips as well.

But what truly killed you was the loyalty. The respect. All the times Jackie had your back, all the times she stepped up to take your side even at the stupidest arguments, all the times she saved you a seat or hung back by the locker room to wait for you. She was a good friend — the type to notice it when all of a sudden you went quiet, to offer to stay up half the night going through your flashcards for a test of a class she didn’t even take.

It made you sick. She was kind and thoughtful and overwhelmingly sweet — and how did you repay her?

By lying. By overthinking every move you made when she was around. By being the stupid girl who couldn’t separate things and ended up, once again, falling in love with her best friend.

“Come on,” Jackie stood before you as you sat on the couch at the residence hall lounge, a teasing smirk on her lips as her eyes found your face. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about soccer.”

“Hm?” You hummed distractedly, looking up at her with a hint of surprise.

She chuckled, sinking onto the middle seat, immediately next to you, ignoring the fact that there was a perfectly good spot just on the opposite end of the couch. She didn’t seem to mind that her knee pressed against yours, warm through your jeans even though there was technically no need for it. You shifted slightly, giving her a chance to pull back, but she didn’t move — as if the societal norm that determined there should be a gap had never even crossed her mind.

Which could mean nothing.

You had to hold back from sighing at your own ridiculousness.

The couch was not that big. The lounge was… full, kind of. Maybe someone would want to grab a seat and she was simply acting cordially.

Maybe Jackie was just a touchy friend.

It wasn’t a crazy thought. In fact, ever since the hug you two shared outside the locker room, she seemed to slowly start touching you more, to seek contact, to subtly brush against you and deliberately show affection. A hand to your arm when she laughed at something you said, fingertips to your shoulder when she walked past in a hurry to get to class.

Friendly, of course. Just… casually affectionate. Jackie had been a popular girl her whole life, and, even if she didn’t live up to all of the stereotypes, there was still a fair share of boxes she checked. For starters, the tendency to go overboard on the alcohol. The borderline professional makeup skills. The ability to charm her way through most situations — and the strategic knowledge of how to use it exactly to her advantage.

And you knew a thing or two about popular girls — from what you’d seen with Karlie, it was common popular girl behavior to exaggerate affection, to not hold back on the hugging and the touching and the ‘love ya’s. And it never meant anything.

Still, the warmth of her knee against yours felt as if it could burn a hole right through the fabric of your jeans.

“You’re spacing out again,” she nudged you lightly, once again with the fucking touching. “Usually means you’re worried about the next game.”

You snorted, composing yourself, thankful for the perfect excuse that had fallen onto your lap.

“Yeah,” you lied, “just… Northwestern. First one we’re not gonna play at home.”

“I know,” Jackie looked at your face carefully, heartbreakingly gently, and you had to resist the urge to get up and run away. “Getting cold feet?”

“Just not really a fan of away games,” you sighed. “Guess all the change of scenery adds to my nerves a little.”

She let out a chuckle, soft, breathy.

“I like it,” she said, a reflexive smile on her face. “The whole… you know. Being somewhere we’ve never been. Playing somewhere new.” Then, Jackie leaned in a bit, conspiratorial, a mischievous smirk popping up on her lips. “Plus, back in high school, our goalie used to sneak booze in her suitcase and we’d all get shit-faced after the coaches went to bed.”

You laughed.

“Fucking goalies,” you played lightly, “always starting shit up.”

Jackie laughed too, bright, beautiful. Still a bit too close for comfort.

Which could mean nothing.

“Is that what you were like in Brookdale?” She asked, eyes on your face with genuine interest.

You shook your head.

“No. Absolutely not,” you chuckled. “I used to have, like, one sip of whatever they brought so they wouldn’t think I was boring and then find an excuse to get straight to bed.”

That seemed to amuse Jackie.

“So you were a goody two shoes? No party animal back then?”

“I wasn’t a goody two shoes,” the smile stayed on your lips, slightly nostalgic. “I was a nervous wreck. Kept worrying about playing badly and fucking it up for everyone.”

Her look softened at that.

“Of course you did,” she placed a hand on your shoulder — gentle, kind, torturous. “You’re always so… focused when it comes to soccer. Like you’re at the Olympics or something.”

“Yeah,” you shrugged, trying your darndest to not let on how your entire upper body tensed at the feel of her fingertips. “Can’t help it. I don’t know, sometimes I kind of wish I would’ve relaxed more, but… we did make it to Nationals. So maybe it paid off.”

Jackie laughed.

“Way to rub it in,” she said playfully. “Well. I think you can do both. Play well and have some fun with it.”

You shrugged again.

“Maybe you’re right.”

Tightening her grip around your shoulder just a bit, Jackie gave you a little shake.

“Come on, at least pretend you believe it,” she giggled. “I can see the gears turning in your head.”

Little did she know, you couldn’t help but think, the game against Northwestern was the furthest thing from your mind at the moment — the touch of her hand and the smell of vanilla being the main culprits of the nervousness painted across your face.

But you wouldn’t dare say it.

“I’m just… it’s automatic,” you excused your standoffishness. “I can’t help it.”

It wasn’t a lie. You just weren’t telling her what exactly you couldn’t help.

She let out a sigh, determined.

“You’re gonna see,” she said. “You’re gonna fully enjoy it this time. It’s gonna be fun.”

You snorted, doubtful.

“If it’s anything like all the other times…”

“Well, I wasn’t there all the other times,” she countered, squeezing your shoulder. “I’m gonna make sure it’s good. Show you how to let loose a little.”

The words brought a smile to your lips — amused, grateful, agonizingly endeared.

“Bold statement,” you nudged her knee softly with yours. “I’m not very fun under pressure.”

“I think I can manage,” she teased, nudging you back. “There’s just one thing I need you to do in exchange.”

You raised a brow, intrigued.

“So there’s a fee,” you joked. “Name it, Taylor.”

Jackie laughed, soft and easy, hand sliding down from your shoulder to your forearm with aching familiarity. Expectant, conspiratorial, she leaned slightly closer, the smell of her perfume making your heart skip a few beats in your chest.

“I’m still not… too confident about my penalty kick,” her voice was still light, though now it carried a hint of insecurity. “Do you mind maybe… spending a few hours helping me practice this week? Like, standing at the goal?”

You didn’t have to think before nodding and offering her a sure grin.

“Of course. We can go out to the field tomorrow and just… do practice shots until we pass out.”

She snorted, finally pulling her knee away from yours with a long, tired grunt.

“You,” she stood up from the couch, leaving you relieved and aching with the loss of contact at the same time, “are a lifesaver. Alright, I’ve gotta get to class. See you at dinner?”

You held back the frustration of seeing her leave.

“Yeah,” you smiled, “see you at dinner.”

Just as you prepared for her to walk away, already shifting into your previous leaned back position on the couch, Jackie lingered. Instead of turning around, she bent over — casual, natural, lips meeting the side of your face for a mere second like it was a daily occurrence.

A kiss. Quick, sweet, warm on your cheek.

And, as if she hadn’t just completely pulled your insides out and left you lying bare on the ground, Jackie simply grinned.

“Bye,” she said, painfully normal, disappearing from your field of view before you could even react.

The phantom press of her lips still burned your cheek like a flame. You swallowed, hoping you didn’t look too dumb amidst the other kids at the lounge, resisting the urge to bring a hand up to cup your own face.

Jackie kissed you. Even though she could’ve done anything else — even though a hug or a wave or even a smile would’ve worked just as well —, she actually made the conscious choice to lean down and press a kiss to your cheek.

Which could mean nothing.

Your heart slammed against your ribcage as if you’d just run a marathon and your eyes were fixed on a random spot on the floor. Slowly, almost instinctively, your stupid mouth hung open as you whispered to no one in particular:

“…Bye.”

And, surely enough, the little angel on your right shoulder rose loyally to her place, wanting to clean up the mess and pull you out of your spiral. Jackie’s a popular girl. Jackie’s affectionate. Friends kiss on the cheek all the time.

Still, in the back of your mind, you could hear it. A little voice, a pull, the mischievous words of a stubborn devil that never seemed to leave you alone.

I don’t know what it was, she whispered, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, but it didn’t feel like nothing.

It was cold in Evanston the moment you stepped off the bus.

Your heart raced from a weird mix of excitement and agony with each second that passed. Keeping a tight grip around the handle of your suitcase, you took a look around, stood focused by the hotel entrance as the rest of the girls finished grabbing their stuff.

Evanston was nice. Quiet, aside from the hum of the bus engine and a distant complaint of I can’t find my bag from one of the freshmen — a far cry from New Jersey’s usual traffic noises in the late afternoon. The streets were wide, tree-lined, shaped by clean sidewalks marked only by passing footsteps and dog paws, old brick buildings in the distance that looked like something out of those college brochures you used to flip through back in senior year.

“Come on, girls,” Coach Hahn muttered with a tired nod, blonde hair slightly mussed from the trip, “I’ve got the room assignments right here. Whoever’s got their stuff can go ahead and check in.”

You stretched out your back, hands tangled over your head, watching as Hahn’s list passed through the girls. Please let it be Josie, you thought, knowing the usual assignments usually consisted of one freshman and one upperclassman per room — and, with all the stress and pressure you’d been under lately, you weren’t sure you could handle bunking with someone like Casey.

For a moment, as Josie’s eyes lifted up from the list and met yours, you thought your prayers might’ve been answered. She walked toward you with an amused little grin on her face, wheeling her suitcase over, still sporting a velvety pillow around her neck.

“Okay,” she giggled, unceremonious, placing a hand on your shoulder with a light slap. “Did you tamper with the assignments or…?”

Her tone was laced with the usual sarcasm you’d grown used to, as if she was constantly trying to come up with the next joke.

“What,” you smiled in return, “are we bunking together?”

Josie’s grin widened.

“Don’t play dumb,” she teased. “Come on. Did you bribe Casey or what?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you chuckled, confused, still half lethargic from the long trip.

She raised an eyebrow.

“You seriously don’t know?”

And, when you shook your head in response, Josie simply laughed, breathy, leaning her head down and closing her eyes as if you’d told her the punchline to a well thought out joke.

“You’re bunking with Taylor,” she slapped your shoulder again, “you lucky bastard.”

Just like that, the post-roadtrip lull flew out of your body like a hummingbird.

“What?!” Your voice came out a little too loud, eyes wide as you leaned forward on instinct. Realizing you’d caught the attention of some of the girls that stood close by, you retracted back into yourself. “But… but we’re both freshmen.”

Josie didn’t seem to care for your distress — on the contrary, in fact, she apparently savored it the same way an older sister might.

“Looks like someone above has really done you a solid,” she chuckled again. “Either that or Coach Hahn’s got a better sense of humor than I thought.”

“It doesn’t…” You shook your head, trying to make sense of it, at this point officially convinced you were being personally targeted by some sort of divine entity with a vendetta. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Just enjoy it,” Josie nudged you lightly, “at least you like the person you’re paired up with. I’m bunking with Jennifer, for fuck’s sake. I’d kill to be put with someone I want to fuck.”

“Josie!” You whisper-shouted, face burning hot despite the cold wind, turning your head around like an anxious chicken to check if someone had heard. “Shut up!”

But she just laughed.

“Chill, dude. You make it too easy,” she gave you a little pat on the back, that obnoxious grin still painted across her lips. “Alright. I’m gonna go… find fucking Jennifer, I guess.” She leaned closer. “I’d tell you to use protection, but… well. I’m not really sure how lesbians do it.”

“Jesus Christ, Josie,” you brought a hand to your face, hiding the blush in your cheeks. “Just… just shut up. Forever.”

Still giggling like it was nothing, Josie walked away, leaving you flushed and trying not to squirm in front of the rest of the team.

While you silently debated whether or not to bring up the rooming situation with Coach Hahn — there had to have been some kind of a mixup, right? —, Jackie emerged from around the bus, eyes slightly puffy from having spent the last few hours in a deep sleep (on your shoulder, nonetheless, which was already its own type of torture for half the trip), a small, tired smile on her mouth as she walked toward you.

“Hey,” she finally said, voice raspier than usual as she stopped next to where you stood. “Coach said we’re sharing a room. How cool is that?”

And that was all you needed to settle your internal conflict — Jackie’s smile, the warmth in her tone, the gigantic eyes set on your face with quiet affection. Her lips, muttering the word cool like your insides weren’t threatening to come out at any given moment. The purest, sweetest excitement for just… bunking with a friend.

Because that was all it was. Two friends — close friends — sharing a hotel room for a soccer tournament.

Why would you ask Coach Hahn to change that?

So you smiled.

“Yeah,” you nodded, trying your hardest to seem normal — something you found yourself having to do more and more over the past few weeks, “hope you don’t snore.”

She chuckled, natural, easy.

“You know I don’t,” Jackie teased. “Though I do think I owe you an apology for…” she gestured vaguely toward your arm, your shoulder, the crease on your sweater on the spot she’d fallen asleep against back inside the bus. “That. Hope I didn’t mess up your good arm, Brick Wall.”

Your shoulder did feel a bit stiff — a reflex of hours spent carefully still, not moving, barely breathing —, but you would never say it.

“Both my arms are good,” you joked, “and don’t worry about it. You weigh, like, nothing. I barely noticed you there.”

A white lie, you knew it, a harmless fib — one you suspected was the first of many to come over the next two days.

Northwestern was nothing if not intimidating.

All stone and ivy, the buildings imposed themselves like crocodiles, quiet and heavy and waiting, as if silently calculating the best time to attack. The soccer field was bright, wide, so green it nearly burned your eyes even with the sky so gray this time of year, Lake Michigan shining distantly behind the bleachers as it caught the few sunrays that dared touch it. A small crowd was already starting to form — loud, vibrant, all dressed in purple and white —, quickly growing until you could barely spot any vacant spots over at the stands.

A line of girls in the familiar red and black uniforms took turns kicking the ball in your direction, focused and determined — a last chance to practice penalty shots before the game started.

Somewhere along the way, Jackie Taylor took the front, jersey tucked inside her shorts, socks pulled all the way up to her knees and those big eyes set on you like she had something to prove. She kicked the ball pointedly, an experienced, accurate move — which you caught mid-air.

“Nice shot, Jackie,” you offered, genuine.

But she simply swallowed and nodded, clearly nervous, the anxiety you'd had for weeks over this game seeming to have finally found her.

At least the night had been uneventful, you thought, never having felt so grateful for an exhausting road trip and a driven team. After you checked into the hotel, Coach Hahn and Coach Pierce gave all the girls some time to settle in before dinner, and, once you got back up to the room, you let Jackie use the bathroom first. You went in right after she got out — thankfully fully dressed —, and, by the time you finished your shower, you stepped out only to find her in bed, already sound asleep. From what you'd heard the next morning, pretty much everyone had had an early night — a distant reality from the one you'd gotten used to seeing back in high school, with the illicit booze sneaking and the truth or dare. This was college soccer: real stakes, girls who actually had a shot at a pro career, scholarships that could evaporate like water if the team decided to show up hungover to the field.

And, apparently, Jackie had just let that sink in.

Before you knew it, you were already being called into formation by the referee, standing shoulder to shoulder with some other Scarlet Knight, waiting for the national anthem to play. Time seemed to be a distant concept as you went through the motions, finding yourself mouthing the words half-heartedly one second and already standing at the goal the next. Once the whistle sounded out, loud and cutting, you took a deep breath. Focus on the ball. Anything else is just white noise.

The Northwestern Wildcats were just as good as you expected them to be — solid, remarkable even, in tune with each other as they cleanly passed the ball around the field —, but the Scarlet Knights weren’t behind. It was a fair fight, the toughest one you’d had to deal with so far, and you did your best to hold your ground whenever one of the purple-dressed girls came near your goalpost.

At some point, by the end of the first half, Josie intercepted a pass from one of the Wildcats, sharply sending the ball across the field with a precise kick that made it land right on Jennifer’s foot. Expertly, she passed it over to Jackie, who ran fiercely through not only one, but two large fullbacks, dribbling with practiced speed and well controlled motions all the way to the corner area. From there, the scene unfolded before your eyes like a movie: Jackie lifted her head, sweat dripping down her temples, looking at Casey for no more than a millisecond before making a decision. She kicked the ball with the inside of her foot, strong, talented, watching expectantly as the captain received it effortlessly and sent it flying into the opposing team’s net.

However, the 1 to zero score didn’t last long. By the start of the second half, the Wildcats’ striker took a calculated risk — sending the ball right into your goal all the way down from the penalty line. The crowd went wild, screams of NORTHWESTERN! clouding your senses, the energetic sea of purple and white making your heart drop with frustration. You should have caught it. You knew you were better than that.

At least the score served as a wake up call, igniting a fire underneath you even hotter than before, eyes following the ball with a type of intensity that couldn’t be broken if the field exploded. You were locked in, impenetrable — doing justice to the Brick Wall name you’d been assigned back in high school. Nothing got through as you threw your body into the ground every time the ball came your way, giving it everything even if it left you scraped and bruised, outright refusing to be the one to blame if the Scarlet Knights were to lose. Now, it was up to the attack team to hold out their end — you’d make sure yours would be one hundred percent covered.

But, to your dismay, the Wildcats’ goalkeeper seemed to be on the exact same page as you. She was tall, white as a ghost, nose and cheeks covered in freckles that gave her a distinct appearance. Her auburn hair was pushed back in a single braid, tight in place even with the sweat that dripped down her forehead, but what really shook you down was the look in her eyes — just as focused, just as determined, just as eager as yours. She looked young, younger than most of the girls on her team, which could have easily meant she was a freshman. Maybe a walk-on, maybe recruited like you — either way, definitely talented enough for it to be the latter. In another life, if your choices had been a little different, if a watcher from another school had come to see you play against the Ridgers on that hot Wiskayok afternoon, you could’ve been in her place. If you hung around after the game, regardless of the final score, maybe you could get to know her. Maybe you could be friends.

But, right now, you really needed her to fail.

And for the next forty-or-so minutes, it didn’t happen.

The second half ended 1 to 1, despite the four added minutes of stoppage time on top of the ninety you’d already played through. You were exhausted, but Coach Hahn didn’t replace you when the referee blew the whistle again, marking the start of the first extra time period.

Soon enough, as the two extra halves played out exactly like the rest of the game, it became clear that the thing you’d been dreading all season was about to come true.

A fucking penalty shootout.

“You done yet?” Coach Pierce placed a hand on your shoulder, a worried expression on his face as he clearly noticed your damp hair and flushed cheeks. “Joanna can take over if you’re not up for it, but, if you think you can do it…”

“I’m good, Coach,” you huffed, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. “Keep me in.”

He looked at you sternly, concerned, out of the corner of his eye.

“You sure?” He double checked. “The last thing we need is for the goalie to collapse on the field right now, Y/N.”

“I’m not gonna collapse,” you insisted, still determined, still eager to right your wrong. “I can do it.”

And, even though you were a nervous wreck, you knew that the only thing worse than standing at the goal would be sitting at the bench, watching someone else do your job while you had no say in it.

Coach Pierce let out a sigh, tapping your back encouragingly.

“Thank God,” he breathed out, looking at your face. “We’re trusting you with this, Brick Wall. Don’t let us down.”

“…No pressure at all,” you muttered to yourself as he walked away, closing your eyes, nodding firmly. “Okay. Let’s fucking do this.”

Then, as you silently hyped yourself up, Coach Hahn’s clapping hands pulled you out of your thoughts.

“Scarlet Knights!” She called out. “Huddle up!”

You jogged toward the team circle, hands on your hips, eyes perfectly locked on your coaches’ faces as they explained how the lineup for the shots would go.

“First up, Casey,” Hahn said, looking around the girls with a steely, unshakable expression. “Then, Emily. Then Parker…,” she waved each player over, urging them to organize in a tighter circle, “Rachel, and, last…”

She paused, eyes drifting through the team, searching. Your heart skipped a beat when she stopped, finally finding who she looked for.

“Taylor,” Hahn called, sure, determined. “And Y/N at the goal.”

In that moment, it was as if you could hear the sound of every single head in that circle turning toward you. You were the goalkeeper, the one who had five times as many chances of failing as the shooters, the one who, at the end of the day, would be the biggest responsible for making or breaking the hearts of the twenty-eight girls who’d been training beside you for months. Everyone was counting on you — the players, the coaches, the entire fucking legion of soccer fans back at Rutgers who’d be waiting for you back home.

But, when you caught Jackie’s gaze from across the circle, all the external pressure seemed to fade.

The worried whispers, the deafening chants from the Northwestern crowd, the loud clank of the ball hitting the goalpost at the other end of the field — it was background noise. Suddenly, all you could pay attention to were the eyes, somehow even bigger than before, staring right into yours in a search for reassurance, or comfort, or whatever it was that could soothe the crippling fear in them.

You could read her like a book. It was all over her face — the desperation, the nerves, the old vendetta she had against penalty shots. The thing that made her doubt, all those months ago, that she’d even make it through tryouts. The thing you both had spent the previous week practicing to exhaustion because she never seemed to trust herself enough to stop. The thing that you noticed had made her self-conscious right before the referee called you into formation earlier today.

You wanted to run toward her, to tell her that she was good at this, to reassure her just like she’d done to you so many times throughout the season — but there was no time. Soon enough, Coach Hahn was instructing the shooters to huddle around Coach Pierce for pointers, and you knew you were going to go through something similar with her, so your plans fell through.

But something happened. Before Jackie turned around, urged by Casey’s hand on her back like a mentor, her lips pressed together in a thin line, eyes still on yours. She half-nodded, something like a head tilt, small and slight and barely noticeable — a subtle cry for anything you could give her.

Jackie Taylor, the former soccer captain, prom queen and subject of your teenage nightmares, desperate for reassurance. Dying to be told she’s good enough. Wanting to hear it from you, of all people.

So you did what you could. You stared at her with the same intensity, setting aside whatever inhibitions the aching feeling in your chest made rise whenever you looked at her. You weren’t sure what came over you, or how you looked, but the energy was palpable — electric, burning, enough to replace any words you could have said. In your eyes, a message. You can do this. I know you can do this. I trust you, I believe in you.

And, when she straightened up her shoulders and let out a breath, falling right into place, you could read the same thing in her gaze — all of it directed to you.

From then on, it was a blur. Whistles blowing. Crowds cheering. Balls, kicked around, hitting nets, hitting hands.

The Scarlet Knights and the Wildcats took turns, with their captain being the first one to kick. Then, it was Casey’s turn — and so on, and so forth.

Each kick sent your way was a small death, and each save was a resurrection. After all five penalties from the Wildcats, you had a grand total of three defenses and two misses — catch, catch, miss, catch, miss. You couldn’t remember any of their faces, their names, the numbers on their jerseys. You couldn’t pick them out of a lineup if your life depended on it.

Right now, in a perfectly dramatic turn of events, the entire fate of the match landed on the hands — well, feet — of none other than Jackie Taylor, as if she needed the extra pressure.

It was tied. Casey and Parker had scored, Rachel and Emily had missed. The pale, freckled keeper stood like a mountain by the goal.

You could barely breathe when the referee blew the whistle.

From your spot at the goal, feet planted on the grass as if you belonged there, hands still tucked underneath the gloves like an armor, you watched Jackie’s back like a movie theater screen — the swinging ponytail, the nervous shoulder shake, the red 11 on her jersey just beneath her last name, TAYLOR, shining through the black background on the center of the frame. If it were an actual movie, you’d be on the edge of your seat. The anticipation — that gut-churning all or nothing feeling — made your stomach drop.

And just when you thought she’d go for it, she stopped. Her shoulders stilled.

She looked back.

A drop of sweat fell down her forehead straight into the grass, or you thought it did, you were too far to tell for sure — maybe it was an illusion, your fertile imagination finding a way to turn the moment even more cinematic. Either way, there was one thing you could not be mistaken about: her eyes landed right on you. She nodded again, and the background faded. All of a sudden, you had tunnel vision. Everything you saw was Jackie.

The whole thing lasted a millisecond — the look, the nod, the little smile you could have sworn you saw on her lips. The reassurance you knew she wanted, the one she seemed to have found. A spark that wasn’t there before.

And then she did it.

She ran. Steady. Four steps, hips to the right. The right — the Northwestern goalkeeper seemed to catch on quickly, unhesitantly throwing her body in that direction, committing early to the defense.

Too early — because, next thing you knew, Jackie switched it up and kicked the ball to the left.

A fucking stutter step. The same exact way you’d seen during tryouts, when you hadn’t been able to catch it yourself — and, back then, it made you so angry you saw red. Now, it just brought a dumb, mesmerized, smug smile to your lips.

The ball hit the net right as the goalkeeper’s body hit the grass, and, suddenly, nothing else mattered.

Someone screamed YES!, the crowd seemed to die down, maybe the other goalie kicked something when she got up, you didn’t know. All you saw was Jackie Taylor, vibrant and lively, electric, running toward you like you were the only person there.

She flew into your arms, chests colliding with a strong thud, but you didn’t mind. It didn’t hurt. You wrapped your arms around her tightly, automatically, holding on like a magnet, barely even flinching when she fully clung to you — legs around your waist like she weighed nothing. You supported her, willingly stuck in the embrace, buzzing, sharing the same heat.

Her head dove into your neck, lips carelessly brushing your skin as she whispered:

“We did it,” her voice was alive, overflowing with energy, “we fucking did it.”

Ignoring the goosebumps that traveled up your back, you simply held her tighter, pulled her closer, savored the contact while it lasted.

After a moment, one perfect moment that seemed to last forever and not nearly long enough at the same time, you heard other voices. You felt other hands. The rest of the team joined in, swallowing you and Jackie, screams and cheers of “SCARLET KNIGHTS!” and “THAT FUCKING SHOT!” and “NOTHING GETS THROUGH BRICK WALL!” making your cheeks hurt from smiling so widely.

Still, even with the swarm, even with the bustling, you kept on finding the big, hazel eyes that drew you like a bug to the light.

And, every time, they landed right back on yours.

It all happened too fast.

From the field, you were dragged into the locker room by your teammates — still buzzing and laughing, still vibrating, jerseys flying around as everybody cheered. Then, there was the bus ride back to the hotel. The room assignments seemed to have been entirely forgotten as everyone navigated through the floor, exchanging tops and makeup palettes, nonstop talking about how fucking amazing the game had been.

“We’re going out,” Casey kept saying from the moment you all stepped out of the field, “we’re so fucking celebrating after this.”

And it stayed hyper, the team was everywhere all the time, a sea of familiar faces that felt more like family (except for Bree and Jasmyn, of course) with each second that passed.

Through it all, there was a constant.

Jackie.

Meeting your eyes through the locker room mirror, shoulder to shoulder on the bus ride, fingertips brushing lightly against your eyelids as she did your makeup. Still, you were never alone. Someone else was always around.

Fake IDs passed through hands like cigarettes, the closest club suddenly finding itself crowded with twenty-eight new faces. Loud music, good drinks, laughter and excitement filling the room as you all let loose and finally celebrated the well-deserved win. A weight off your shoulders, for once — at last having some fucking fun.

In between DJ sets and the sound of young girls screaming at the top of their lungs, Jackie slid through the dance floor, gravitating toward you. You were buzzed enough to simply smile, an ear-to-ear grin that revealed just how relaxed you finally were, and she did the same.

Words weren’t needed.

She simply brought her hands up to your neck, intertwining her fingers around the back of it, carefree and light as Can’t Get You out of My Head by Kylie Minogue played in the background. Her hips swayed side to side in time with the music, and, when you didn’t immediately respond to the touch, she simply grabbed your hands and pulled them to her waist, laughing lively as she mouthed the words.

I just can’t get you out of my head

Your loving is all I think about

I just can’t get you out of my head

It’s more than I dare to think about

There’s a dark secret in me

Don’t leave me locked in your heart

Set me free

Feel the need in me

Set me free

Your heart raced, catching her eyes as she sang those words right in your face, that beautiful, bright, mesmerizing smile still painted across her lips like it would never fade. And so you sung back. Close, carefree, tipsy — higher on the feeling of winning, of her hands on your neck, of having her so near you could practically taste her vanilla perfume than you were on the few drinks you’d had.

Which could mean nothing, you almost thought before catching yourself. Not tonight. Tonight you were simply going to have fun — you figured you’d just worry about it in the morning.

And so you let loose, you danced and you laughed and you enjoyed yourself, partying with the team until the DJ practically kicked you all out of the dance floor by the time the club closed.

“Mwah!” Josie exclaimed, giggly and stumbly, tripping over her feet by her room door as she planted a wet kiss on your cheek. “I love you. I love you, love you, love you guys.”

You had a hand around one of her arms while Jackie supported the other, helping her to her room as the three of you were the only ones who still lingered in the hallway — slowed down by Josie’s drunken antics.

You were still half buzzed, and the glint in Jackie’s eyes made it clear she was too, but it was nothing compared to the rest of the team — especially Josie.

“There you go,” you chuckled, taking the keycard from your friend’s purse and using it to open the door. “Watch your step, babe.”

“‘Mkay…” Josie stumbled, laughing, nearly sending Jackie onto the ground. “Shit— sorryyy, Taylor!”

“That’s okay,” Jackie snorted, helping you push the drunk girl inside. “But try not to fall, Josie. You’re gonna wake Jennifer up.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” you joked, watching as Jennifer lay sprawled out across her bed, club dress and heels still on, makeup smudged like she’d been through a hurricane.

After somehow managing to put Josie to bed, you and Jackie finally stepped out into the hallway.

And, for the first time that night — after the looks and the hug and the dancing, after Can’t Get You out of My Head played in your head all night — you two were alone.

You didn’t know if the sudden charge in the atmosphere was a product of your imagination. You didn’t know if Jackie felt it too — the awkwardness, the unspokenness, the heavy silence that settled itself between the two of you, filled only by the sound of footsteps as you walked side to side toward your shared room.

It wasn’t such a long distance — five doors, to be exact— but, in that moment, it felt like miles.

“...Tonight was fun,” you finally said, needing to make things normal, lingering by the door as your hand flew into your pocket in search of the key card.

“Yeah,” Jackie smiled tamely, her voice a near whisper as she stared at the wooden frame — a far cry from the confident, vibrant girl who’d danced with you earlier tonight. “I had a great time.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Josie that fucked up,” you returned in the same tone, trying to fill in the awkward silence.

Jackie chuckled softly, quietly.

“I know.”

You finally found the key card, unlocking the door, pushing it open.

“And Casey,” you kept talking as you walked inside, hoping the rambling tactic would work to lighten the mood. “Seriously, when she said that to the DJ I thought she was gonna—”

But the words left you when, all of a sudden, Jackie’s hand met your bicep.

Your face shifted, heart beating so fast you could feel it in your ears. If Jackie didn’t know how you felt yet, she definitely sensed something now with how quiet you went, with how the softest touch made your entire body visibly ignite.

You prepared for a friendly laugh, a dismissive wave, a deflection.

Instead, Jackie came closer.

She walked toward you, her free hand meeting the door and pushing it closed, fingers finding the lock and twisting it with a swift move. Her chest touched yours through your clothes. She kicked off her heels, still glued to you, those enormous eyes looking slightly up to meet yours.

There was a flicker in them, the same you’d seen before she scored the winning shot that afternoon.

“Jackie…” You whispered, barely audible, practically a breath. There was no tiptoeing around whatever this was — not when you couldn’t tear your gaze away from hers. “What are you doing?”

She didn’t budge. In her face, determination. The eyes of a winner, the posture of a captain, the confidence of a freshman who made team circles and scored winning points.

“You know what I’m doing,” she answered, raspier than usual, low. So close you could almost taste her words.

The words, the perfume, the way her nails dug slightly into your arm — it all made you dizzy, way more than the alcohol ever could. Silently, while staring at her face with your lips parted and your eyes wide, you wondered if your drink had been spiked. If somehow you’d had more than you thought, enough to make you hallucinate, enough to make your deepest dreams come true so vividly it made you want to cry.

But Jackie brought you back to Earth.

“If I got it all wrong, tell me,” she leaned even closer, lips a breath away from yours. “Tell me, and I’ll back off and blame it on the drinks I didn’t even have. And we’ll never talk about it again.”

You swallowed.

Bolder than you’d ever felt before, you breathed out:

“You didn’t get it wrong.”

And that was all the incentive Jackie needed to lunge forward and capture your lips in a fiery kiss.

Her hands moved up in a second, not giving you time to overthink, clutching your shirt like it gave her life meaning. Her lips moved against yours, wanting, taking, tongue sliding into your mouth with the willpower of a starved woman who’d finally been offered a feast. Jackie kissed like she played soccer — fierce and sharp and overwhelming —, and, as the goalkeeper, you did your job. You caught everything she offered, doubling down on the intensity, this time not waiting for permission.

Your hands found her hips, her waist, her sides — grabbing, claiming, covering every inch you could reach before your patience wore thin and you found yourself fumbling with the zipper on the back of her dress. Apparently, Jackie was even less composed than you, not giving you the chance to take it off as she brought her hands to the fabric herself and slid it down her body, lips never leaving yours for more than a mere second so you both could breathe.

A shudder ran from the tip of your toe all the way to the top of your head as you ran your hands through her back and found it bare, nothing else covering her aside from the tiny black lace underwear she still had on.

“Jesus Christ, Jackie,” you muttered, entranced, mesmerized, looking at her. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Her breath caught audibly in her throat, hands moving up to grip your hair, your neck, your shoulders. While your eyes traveled down her body, taking in every inch of exposed skin, hers stayed fixed on your face — watching you watch her, drinking in the sincerity in your words, savoring the undisguised awe.

“Say that again,” she whispered against you, pressing a dizzying kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Tell me what you think of me. Tell me everything.”

It was your turn to lean forward, letting your lips meet her jaw.

“You’re beautiful,” you spoke close to her ear, kissing the spot behind it. “So fucking beautiful. You’re so fucking incredible and I’ve wanted you for so—”

And she cut you off with another kiss, desperate, hard, hands unceremoniously traveling to her underwear and yanking it down impatiently.

“Take me to bed,” she pleaded, breathy, needy. “Please. I want you too.”

You didn’t have to be told twice. In a second, your lips were on Jackie’s again, hands glued to her hips as you walked her backwards to your bed, lying her down, getting on top.

As you finally touched Jackie where she wanted you most, as her traces covered your hand and her sounds filled your ears, as your clothes flew scattered at the floor carelessly, the room fell away. Nothing else mattered — not Evanston, not Northwestern, not Rutgers. Not Shauna. The world narrowed down to Jackie, to her scent in your nose, to her taste on your tongue.

For once, you didn’t think about what it meant. You just let yourself feel it.

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