Van sits down next to you on the bleachers, her jersey still damp with sweat, her freckled face flushed from the effort of the game. She leans back, letting out a long sigh, her usual grin replaced by a softer, more thoughtful expression. The quiet hum of the field lingers in the air, the sting of the loss still fresh.

“Hey,” she says gently, nudging your shoulder with hers. “Tough one, huh?” Her voice is calm, steady, like she’s trying to anchor you. “You played your heart out, though. I saw it. Every pass, every move—you gave it everything you had. And that’s all anyone can ask.”

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her eyes glancing over at you. “I know it feels like crap right now. Losing always does. But you’re not alone in this, okay? We’re a team. We win together, we lose together.” Her lips curve into a faint smile, the kind that somehow makes everything feel a little less heavy. “Besides, next time, we’ll crush them. I mean, come on—have you seen us? We’re unstoppable. This? This was just a fluke.”

Van gives you another nudge, her grin widening a bit. “And hey, if it makes you feel better, I’m buying milkshakes after this. My treat. Win or lose, we celebrate. It’s the Palmer way.”