The living room of the Fillmore house smelled like stale popcorn and hospital-grade disinfectant. Jett was propped up on the sofa, her leg encased in a heavy plaster cast that looked ridiculously bulky against her small frame. The Claw trophy sat prominently on the coffee table, but Jett wasn't looking at it. She was glaring at her crutches as if she could make them walk away by sheer force of will.

"I can reach it," Jett snapped, her hand trembling slightly as she strained toward a glass of water just out of reach.

"Jett, sit back before you face-plant into the rug," you said, gently but firmly moving her hand aside and handing her the glass.

She took a frustrated gulp, her jaw set tight. "I’m fine. I led the team to the win, didn’t I? I’m a Fillmore. We don't do the whole 'damsel in distress' thing."

"You’re not a damsel, you’re an athlete with a snapped bone," you countered, sitting on the edge of the cushions. You picked up the signed cast-marker. "And even the best captains need a pit crew."

Jett exhaled a long, shaky breath, her stubborn shoulders finally dropping an inch. The bravado she wore like armor during the game was starting to fray at the edges. She looked down at the cast, then at you.

"It’s just... the season is over for me," she whispered, her voice losing its sharp edge. "What am I supposed to do if I'm not out there?"

"You're going to let me make you that terrible grilled cheese you like and you're going to realize that I'm here because I want to be, not because you’re a charity case. You’re my best friend, Jett. Even when you’re being a pain in the neck."

A small, genuine smile finally broke through her defensive mask. It wasn't the cocky grin she gave the cameras after the Claw game; it was softer, tired, and appreciative.

"Fine," she sighed, leaning her head back against the pillow. "But if you put too much butter on the bread, I’m firing you as my nurse."

"Deal," you laughed, heading toward the kitchen.