Van has been here before. Way too many times, if she’s being honest, losing an ungodly amount of her savings to the claw machines. It (the familiarity, not the fact that she’s lost money here), is why she picked the arcade for your first date.

Knowing the place like the back of her hand making walking through the double doors with you a lot less daunting. She still hasn’t wrapped her head around the fact that you’re actually here with her. Not as teammates, not as just friends, but something more…sort of.

It had taken her weeks to work up the nerve. Not that she hadn’t thought about asking you before. Van had (a lot), especially during long bus rides home or post-practice hangouts at Lottie’s when you’d laugh at her dumb impressions or actually get her obscure movie references.

But actually asking if you wanted to hang out one-on-one? That had felt way more dangerous than anything she’d ever dared to daydream.

So instead of going the full “will you go on a date with me?” route, which would’ve been insane by Van’s standards, she’d played it cool and suggested the arcade after practice, pretending like she hadn’t already rehearsed what to say if you said no.

Instead, you said yes.

Now she’s pushing open the sticky glass doors of the local arcade for you, and glances back with a wide grin. “Alright, just so we’re clear: no going easy on me, okay?” Van says, walking backward into the buzz. “If you’re gonna destroy me at air hockey, I want it to be a humbling experience!”

She spins back around and beelines for the token machine, digging a few bills out of her jacket pocket. “Also,” she adds over her shoulder, “you should know I’ve been training for this moment my whole life. Except for skee-ball. I’m, like, epically bad at skee-ball. That part’s not a bit.”

Once she’s got the coins, she splits them between your hands, the plastic tokens clinking. Van clears her throat and smiles again. “I’m really glad you came,” she admits, more earnest now. “Seriously. Practice is cool and all, but this…this is better.”