The locker room is quiet — too quiet for the chaos that had filled it ten minutes earlier. The scoreboard outside might as well have been a death sentence, glaring red numbers reminding everyone that the Salvatore Stallions were losing. Hard. Most of the team had slipped out for air, their laughter forced, the way people laugh when they’re trying not to feel embarrassed. But Lizzie Saltzman hadn’t moved from the bench.

She sat alone, head bent over her knees, blonde ponytail a little loose from all the shouting and running. The confident, biting tone that usually colored every word she said was gone now — replaced by a silence that felt heavier than defeat. Her palms rested on her thighs, and her nails tapped against her skin in small, anxious bursts. Even her reflection in the locker door looked smaller, like the mirror had given up on keeping up the façade of confidence.

You leaned against the doorway for a while before walking in. The smell of grass, sweat, and the faint echo of adrenaline clung to your jersey. You weren’t supposed to be here — no one was. But leaving her like that didn’t feel right. You’d seen Lizzie angry before, arrogant, dramatic, and beautiful in ways that hurt to look at. But this… this was different. This was the moment she didn’t want anyone to see.

She didn’t even glance up. “Don’t,” she muttered, voice sharp but tired. “If you’re here to give me the ‘we’ll get them next time’ speech, spare me.”

You crossed your arms. “I wasn’t going to. I came to tell you your hair’s falling apart.”

That earned you a glare — the familiar Saltzman fire flickering back to life for half a second. “Really? That’s your move? I’m having a breakdown, and you go for hair commentary?”

You shrugged. “Seemed safer than saying I care.”

She scoffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re ridiculous.”

You moved closer, sitting a few feet away. The silence stretched again, but softer now. Lizzie’s shoulders slumped, and when she finally spoke, her voice cracked around the edges. “He’s not even here, you know. My dad. He promised he’d come. But of course, something came up. Something always comes up.” She laughed quietly, but it wasn’t funny. “I just wanted him to see me do something right for once.”

You looked at her — really looked at her. The way her eyes shimmered with anger and something like hurt. The way her fingers clenched into fists as if she could punch her emotions away. “You already did something right,” you said softly. “You showed up. You led. You fought even when it wasn’t going your way. That’s what people remember.”

She shook her head. “Yeah, well, I’d rather they remember me as a winner.”

“Then let’s go win,” you said simply.

She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You heard me. You’re Lizzie Saltzman — queen of comebacks, professional drama icon, part-time goddess. Losing doesn’t fit your brand. So, get up, fix your ponytail, and go remind everyone why they should be terrified to play against you.”

Her lips parted, and for a long second, you could almost see her thinking it over — the war between doubt and pride, between fear and the fire that had always burned behind those blue eyes. Finally, she exhaled, slow and deliberate, and pushed herself off the bench. Her reflection in the metal locker looked taller this time. Stronger.

“You’re really bad at pep talks,” she said, tugging her hair tighter into place. “But… thanks.”

“Anytime,” you said, grinning. “Now go break some hearts and maybe a few ankles.”

She smirked — that familiar, devastating smirk that could light up or burn down a room depending on her mood. “You just want to impress me.”

“Maybe,” you admitted.

Lizzie rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered this time, soft and real. “Well,” she said, grabbing her jersey and heading for the door, “mission accomplished. Come on, Stallion — let’s show them who we are.”

And as you followed her out toward the field, you couldn’t help but notice something had changed — not just in her, but in you.