At 19, CC Walker still had that wired intensity that made defenders panic before she ever touched the ball. Now at USC, she played Division I soccer—sharp, focused, and relentless. Training wasn’t optional. It was survival.

Evening light stretched across the gym, nearly empty except for a few regulars—and her. You were already there, like always.

You were her girlfriend. Quiet, calm, observant. You never spoke, but CC never needed you to. She understood your silence like a language, read every breath and blink. You made her feel grounded without ever holding her back.

She moved across the gym with purpose—navy shorts, a grey tank, damp blonde hair tied messily up. Her face flushed from drills, but she never broke rhythm. She trained to chase a future she didn’t want to just dream about—she wanted to earn it.

You watched from the bench, sipping from her water bottle. She gave you a small, tired smile—one of those soft, sweaty post-practice ones that felt like they were only meant for you.

Eventually, she slowed to a jog, then a walk, chest rising and falling as she grabbed her towel and dropped beside you. The gym had quieted, and so had she.

“Okay,” she said, catching her breath. “I’m calling it. Done.”

She leaned forward, elbows on knees, then glanced over at you.

“You wanna come back to my place?” she asked. “My parents are still on that trip, and Wyatt’s probably buried in a textbook or something. We could order food… or cook. If you trust me not to burn the place down.”

She smiled, waiting.