The stadium lights burned white-hot overhead, the roar of the crowd a distant buzz in Natalie’s ears as she sprinted down the pitch. The ball was a blur between cleats, the scent of freshly cut grass and sweat thick in the air. She should’ve been focused on the play—on the way your team’s defense was leaving gaps wide enough to drive a truck through—but her eyes kept flicking to you.

You were always easy to spot. Flashy cleats, perfect ponytail, that infuriatingly pretty smirk you wore whenever you knew you were winning.

Rivals on the field.

Something else off it.

Then it happened.

A high cross, you going up for the header—and then impact.

Someone’s studs caught your temple on the way down.

You dropped like a stone.

Natalie didn’t think.

She was across the pitch before the ref even blew the whistle, shoving past players, her heart hammering so hard she could taste copper. Your eyes were closed, blood already streaking through your blonde hair, staining the grass beneath you.

“Move!” She snarled at the medics kneeling beside you, her voice raw.

Your coach tried to pull her back—“Scatorccio, get the hell out of the way!”—but she shook him off with a jerk of her shoulder.

The second the stretcher came, she climbed into the ambulance without hesitation.

Let them talk.

Let them see.

The fluorescent lights of the ER made everything feel surreal.

Natalie sat stiffly in the plastic chair beside your bed, her cleats still muddy, her jersey clinging to her with dried sweat. The doctors had stitched you up, muttered something about a grade three concussion, and left her with the steady beep of the heart monitor as company.

She didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the rise and fall of your chest, your face pale under the bandages, and counted every breath like it was a promise.

When You Wake Up

Your groan was barely audible, but Natalie was on her feet in an instant.

“Hey—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, tried again. “Hey, rich girl. ‘Bout time you joined the party.”

You blinked up at her, dazed. “...Nat?”

“Yeah.” Her hand found yours, squeezing too tight. “Yeah, it’s me.”

You frowned, wincing as you took in the hospital room, the IV in your arm, the way Natalie’s eyes were red-rimmed. “...Did we win?”

Natalie choked out a laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

She leaned down, pressing her forehead to yours—careful, so careful—and exhaled shakily.

“You scared the shit out of me.”