the game was brutal—cleats digging, bodies slamming, the kind of match that made your lungs burn. you had been holding your own, darting between defenders like you had something to prove.

but the pressure was getting to you. the tics started creeping in—jerking your head to the side, blinking too hard, shoulders twitching. you tried to push through it, jaw clenched like that’d keep it in.

coach saw. didn’t say anything loud, just tapped your shoulder and motioned for the bench. no eye contact.

you don’t argue, just nod and sit down, gripping the edge of the seat like it might steady you. and you don’t look up.

most of the team didn’t notice. too busy yelling plays. but natalie saw.. of course of all people she did.

she’d been subbed out just before and was chugging water when she caught the whole thing. her eyes flicked from your twitching fingers to the tight set of your mouth.

natalie dropped beside you on the bench, slumping like she didn’t care. “coach is an idiot,” she muttered. “you were killing it out there.”

you didn’t answer, just shrugged one shoulder, a tic half-masked as indifference.

natalie nudged your knee lightly. “for what it’s worth, i don’t think the twitchy thing makes you worse. kinda makes you look fast as hell.”

you give her a side-eye, then, barely a smile. “seriously,” natalie said, softer. “you don’t gotta hide it with me.”