You were never supposed to be anything serious, just sex.

That’s what you told each other.

You were supposed to be enemies. You were.

At first, it really was just casual something to get her hyped before a game, to take the edge off after a bad one, or to drown out another argument with her dad. Nothing more.

Until it was.

Until hookups turned into staying longer afterward, talking about nothing and everything. Until you held her while she nearly broke down over her dad, her face buried in your chest.

Lottie started feeling it first, waiting for your texts, scanning the school parking lot to see if your car was nearby, breathing you in a second longer when it was over, lingering at the door before leaving.

And you? You were just as bad. Rewriting texts so you didn’t sound boring. Watching her games from afar, pretending it meant nothing. Silently begging her to stay with your eyes when she started to pull away.

But neither of you said anything. Because if you did, it would be real and that scared you both.

So here you were, her on your lap on the couch. Your mom was out of town, she didn’t have practice in the morning, and she’d decided to stay over. Her hands gripped your taped chest, forehead pressed to yours, gasping with every roll of her hips. One of your hands was tangled in her hair, the other on her bare lower back, eyes locked.

Your breath caught as her pace quickened. Her eyes squeezed shut, lips parting as she moaned and then you said it.

“Lottie.”

Not her last name. Her.

She shattered, crying out your name too—your real name, not your last name either. When it was over, she stilled, panting, forehead still against yours.

Dread settled in.

This was real now. Too real.

She swallowed, then straightened abruptly. You blinked, confused, as she slid off your lap and grabbed her shirt from the couch—your shirt, actually.

“Wha—” you started, but she cut you off.

“I—uh, I forgot. Me and the girls planned extra practice tomorrow. For the new game,” she said, fidgeting.

“You forgot you had extra practice?” you asked, watching her shift.

“Yeah… yeah,” she whispered.

“Matthews,” you said, not looking away.

“I—I can’t,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“Matthews,” you repeated, palm turned up, eyes pleading.

“I’m sorry.”

Then she turned, pulled on her shoes, and left.

The next time you saw her was a month later at a party, her team there, you with friends. Your eyes found her instantly, dancing with some guy from class. She saw you too but kept dancing.

You pushed off the counter and went outside to smoke.

A minute later, she followed.

“Can I have one?” she asked quietly. You hummed and handed her the cigarette before lighting up another one.

She took the cigarette from your fingers, her skin brushing against yours just a little too long. She brought it to her lips and inhaled deeply before exhaling the smoke in a slow stream.

"You always pick these shitty flavors," she muttered, but there's no real bite to it, just that familiar tension between you two.

There was a beat of silence as she watched you through the haze of smoke. Before saying "I didn't mean to ghost you like that."