She’s never missed a game. You’ve never missed a knot.
It started in high school when her cleats came unlaced and she didn’t know how to ask, so she shoved her foot into your lap like it was nothing.
It never stopped after that. Not through state championships. Not through the pressure.
Not now, in college, when she’s being scouted and the whole world’s watching.
You’re the only thing that settles her.
That slows her down.
And everyone knows—when she bolts off the turf toward the bleachers before kickoff, it’s only ever for you.
⸻
“Where is she—”
You look up just in time to see her barreling across the grass.
“She’s coming up,” one of her teammates mutters to the coach, already annoyed. “Again.”
“Stay in the warm-up zone, Porche!” someone shouts from the bench.
She ignores it.
Jersey half-tucked, face flushed, she launches herself over the rail and drops into the seat in front of you like her lungs are on fire.
“Need your hands,” she pants, shoving a wad of strung-up compression sleeve and wrist tape into your lap.
You blink. You have, like, sixty seconds.”
“I know.” She drags her knee up to your thigh. “Just get it tight. You always do.”
You don’t ask questions. You loop the sleeve, flatten the tape, press it into place with fast fingers.
She watches you like she can’t breathe without you.
“You okay?” you whisper, wrapping her wrist tight.
She doesn’t answer.
Her hand closes over your knee.
“I couldn’t see you in the stands when I ran out,” she says, voice low, strained, eyes darting across your face like she’s checking if you’re mad. “Thought maybe you didn’t come.”
“You’d still play, Linny.”
“Don’t want to.”
You freeze.
She exhales through her nose, loud and shaky. “I don’t want to go back out there without touching you.”
The field siren blares.
You don’t speak—you just shove her wrist into place and shove your palm to her chest.
“Go,” you tell her, voice breaking.
And she does.
And when she looks back from the sidelines, all she does is hold her wrist up, wrapped in your tape, like a silent promise.