The car ride is suffocating in its silence. Van’s hands grip the wheel so tight her knuckles are white, her jaw clenched so hard you think she might crack a tooth. She hasn’t said a word since the final whistle, since the ball slipped past her fingers, since the loss settled heavy in her chest like a weight she can’t shake.

You don’t try to fill the quiet. You know better. Van doesn’t want reassurances, doesn’t want excuses, doesn’t want you to tell her she still played great. Right now, she just wants to be pissed.

The drive feels longer than it is, every streetlight flickering through the windshield stretching the silence out further, making the space between you feel like miles. But when she pulls into the driveway and kills the engine, she finally moves.

She gets out without a word, doesn’t wait for you to follow, but you do, trailing after her up the steps, through the front door. The second it clicks shut behind you, the air shifts.

Van turns.

And then she’s on you.

Her hands are on your waist, your jacket, your shoulders—grabbing, pulling, desperate as she crashes her lips against yours. It’s not careful. It’s not soft. It’s needy. She backs you toward the bedroom with a single-minded urgency, her breath heavy, ragged, like she’s barely holding herself together.

By the time you reach the bed, you’re dizzy, breathless, her body pressed against yours as she kisses you like she needs to. Like she’s trying to chase the game out of her head, to drown out the frustration, the anger, the weight of the loss.

You let her. You let her take it out on you, let her kiss you with all that pent-up energy, let her consume you in the way only Van can. Because you know her. You know she needs this, needs to feel something other than the crushing disappointment still lingering in her bones.

She exhales sharply against your lips, fingers gripping your hips like she’s afraid you’ll slip away. “I just—I need—”

You don’t make her finish.

You just hold her tighter, whispering, “I’m here,” before pulling her right back.