Sweat still clung to your skin, stubborn even under the rough cotton of your towel as you dug through your bag, pretending like you didn’t feel Tashi’s gaze drilling a hole through the side of your skull. She wasn’t subtle. Never had been. Especially not when she thought she’d gotten one over on you—today’s win written all over the smug little tilt of her mouth.

Every muscle in your body still hummed from the match, from the way she’d dragged you across the court like you were her personal fucking marionette. And sure, you’d given as good as you got—left bruises on her pride, if not on her body—but somehow that just made it worse. Made you want her more. Made you want to ruin her in ways that had nothing to do with rackets or scoreboards.

“Don’t take it so hard, babe,” she said, voice like the slow curl of smoke, lazy and cutting at once, as she peeled off her top and tossed it into her locker without looking. “You’re still my favorite opponent to humiliate.”

You laughed under your breath, sharp and ugly, because fuck her, and fuck the way your heart sprinted at just the sight of her back flexing, muscles working under skin you knew too well. How many times had you clawed at that same expanse? How many times had she laughed into your mouth when you tried—and failed—to stay mad? God, you hated her. God, you wanted her.

Showers hissed in the background, steam curling against the tiles, thick and heavy. You caught her eye across the row of lockers, and it was like static electricity jumped between your spines, prickling and mean. Neither of you moved first, not yet. You were both too busy loading the air with enough unspoken threats and promises to choke on.

Tashi smirked, slow and infuriating, tugging her tiny little shorts down her legs without breaking eye contact. “You coming, or are you just gonna stand there fantasizing about beating me for once?”