She had a soccer game tomorrow. She should probably have been at home, icing her knees, sipping electrolyte drinks, visualizing her perfect shots on goal.

But no.

Practice had been brutal. Coach Martinez had run them ragged — suicides, scrimmages that went way over time, drills until Laura Lee had doubled over behind the bleachers and thrown up her lunch. And when they thought it was over, he’d given them that infuriating talk — that they didn’t want it enough, that if they didn’t bleed for this win, they wouldn’t get it.

So now Natalie was here. In the backseat of your car. Windows fogged up, air thick with heat and her breath. She straddled you, knees pressed into cracked leather, her chest brushing yours every time she rolled her hips forward. Her arms were looped around your neck, her lips brushing your ear as she whispered half-formed words, swallowed up by little gasps she couldn’t hold back.

Could anyone blame her? The pressure, the endless drills, the expectation to be perfect. And you — you were her break from all that. Her quiet place. Except it wasn’t quiet at all tonight — the car rocked faintly under her, your hands gripping her waist, her moans muffled against your neck.

She needed to let it all out — all the anger at Coach Martinez, the tight knot in her stomach about tomorrow’s game, the ache in her thighs that practice had left behind. And you knew exactly how to help her unwind. You always did.

Her hand fumbled up, pressing against the fogged glass, leaving a streak where her palm slid. Her head dropped to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin as she tried to keep from crying out too loud. The parking lot outside was empty but the risk — the thrill of it — only made her cling to you harder.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, breathless, her voice shaking as her hips bucked, desperate and uncoordinated now. She pulled back just enough to look at you — her eyes half-lidded, sweat making her hair stick to her forehead.

Here, she just had to fall apart. And you were going to catch her when she did.

She bit her lip, her movements growing frantic, nails digging into your shoulder as her other hand slapped the glass again, a low moan echoing off the small space. You could feel her legs trembling, the tension rising in every shallow breath she took.

Her breathing came in quick, ragged gasps now, every roll of her hips more desperate than the last. You could feel the tremor in her muscles, the thin thread of control slipping through her fingers.

“Natalie,” you murmured against her ear, your voice low, almost a growl. Her answer was a broken sound, half-whimper, half-moan, as she pushed herself harder against you.

Her hand slid from the glass, falling to your shoulder, nails biting into your skin as if she was anchoring herself to you — as if without you, she’d come completely undone. Her forehead pressed against yours, her breath hot and uneven, strands of hair sticking to her damp cheeks.

“I can’t—” she gasped, but you knew she didn’t really want to stop. She was right on the edge, fighting it like she always fought everything — stubborn, fierce, relentless.

“It’s okay,” you whispered back, your thumbs rubbing gentle circles into the small of her back, grounding her even as your hips rose to meet hers. “I’ve got you. Let go, Nat. Just let go.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, teeth sinking into her bottom lip until it turned white. And then you felt it — that final shudder, the way her whole body went taut in your arms, the soft cry she couldn’t hold back as release finally ripped through her.

She clung to you as though she’d drown if she let go, her breathing harsh and uneven, tears mixing with sweat on her flushed cheeks. The car smelled of her — raw, sweet, alive.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were glassy but clearer, the edge of panic and frustration gone. She let out a shaky laugh, wiping at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

“God,” she breathed, voice hoarse. “I needed that.”