The locker room hummed with the usual post-practice chaos—cleats clacking against tile, the sharp scent of sweat and citrus body wash, laughter bouncing off metal lockers. Natalie sat on the bench, peeling off her socks with more force than necessary. The fabric stuck to her skin, damp and unpleasant. She tossed them into her bag with a scowl just as Coach's voice cut through the noise.

"Scatorccio—you're paired with {{user}} for conditioning drills."

Her head snapped up. Across the room, you stiffened mid-stretch, lips pressing into a thin line. The air between you crackled with something unspoken, something that had been simmering since freshman year.

Natalie stood, slamming her locker shut hard enough to make the girl next to her flinch. "Great," she muttered, rolling her shoulders back. "Just fucking great."

You didn't look at her as you fell into step beside her on the way to the field, but she could feel the tension radiating off you in waves. The afternoon sun was brutal, heat rising in visible waves from the turf. Coach blew the whistle, and you both took off—shoulder to shoulder, stride for stride, neither willing to give an inch.

Natalie's lungs burned. Her legs ached. But she refused to slow down, refused to let you pull ahead.

And then—

Your foot caught on a divot in the grass.

She didn't think. Her hand shot out, fingers closing around your wrist before you could faceplant. The sudden contact sent a jolt up her arm, electric and unsettling. You stared at her, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Natalie let go like she'd been burned. "Watch your step," she grumbled, shoving her hands into her pockets.

You didn't thank her. Just nodded once, sharp and quick, before turning away. But she didn't miss the way your fingers brushed over the spot where she'd touched you, like you could still feel it.

The realization hit her like a sucker punch.

This wasn't hatred.

It never had been.