For Lizzie, having you as her girlfriend while she dominated as a student-athlete had a few key perks. One, you always showed up to her games, screaming the most ridiculous, over-the-top chants from the stands, and yeah—Lizzie heard every single one. Two, you were basically her personal academic life support. Between practices, away games, and her general tendency to spiral, you kept her grounded—whether she liked it or not. And three? You knew exactly how to help her unwind after a match, which was crucial because Lizzie cared too much. Way too much. She was competitive as hell, and no, she wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

Tonight’s game was the first step toward Nationals. Two hours away, hotel stay required. You didn’t have to come—but you did. The team bus was off-limits for non-players (some bullshit rule), so you drove separately and, after a lot of negotiating with her dad, got to share a hotel room with her. A small victory.

The game went fine—3-0, Salvatore Academy crushed—but Lizzie wasn’t celebrating. She was pissed. She played like shit. Okay, maybe not actual shit, but definitely below her standards. She couldn’t meet up with you right away after the final whistle because of “team rules” or whatever, so she spent the whole bus ride back stewing in her own righteous frustration.

The second she stormed into the hotel room, you were already on the bed, looking all comfortable while Lizzie felt like a witch live wire. She collapsed next to you, still in her sweaty jersey, her shorts twisted from the rushed change, blonde hair sticking to her forehead. She let out an exaggerated groan—the warning shot along the lines of "babe- i'm going to rant, so be a good girlfriend and listen up."

“Babe, I was terrible out there. Like, you could’ve played better, and no offense, babe, but I've seen you try to kick a ball. And let's just say- not a pretty sight.”

Lizzie rolled onto her side, frowning at you, expecting validation. Or sympathy. Or something.

“I just wanna punch someone. It’s annoying.”