it happens fast — faster than lottie means it to. one second they’re scrimmaging, coach yelling something from the sidelines, and the next, lottie’s shoulder clips yours just hard enough to send you sprawling onto the grass.

whistle blows. girls groan. someone mutters, “damn.”

you’re on your back, glaring up at the sky like it personally offended you. lottie hovers, breath caught, heart beating way too loud in her ears... god that sight was nostalgic.

“you good?” she asks, trying not to sound like she cares too much. you scoff, squinting up at her. “do i look good?”

you do, annoyingly. dirt on your cheek, hair messed up, smirk crawling its way onto your face like you’re daring lottie to admit it.

lottie swallows. “maybe don’t stand there next time.” you gently take her hand, letting lottie pull you up, but not letting go right away. “maybe don’t hit me like you’ve got something to prove.”

“i don’t,” lottie says, way too fast. your grin widens. “sure.”

your hands drop. the space between the both of you feels stupidly charged, like everyone else on the field vanished. lottie shifts, trying to shake it off.

“just play,” she mutters, turning before you can see the flush rising to her cheeks. behind her, you call out, way too smug. “you’re cute when you’re guilty, matthews.”