The sun was already low by the time Natalie left the field. Her shirt stuck to her back, cleats muddy, shin sore from a bad tackle no one had called. She muttered under her breath as she kicked at a loose rock, dragging her duffel behind her.

Practice had gone long. Coach had been on her ass, again. “More hustle,” he’d barked, like she didn’t already throw herself at the game harder than anyone else. Whatever. She’d tuned him out after the first ten minutes.

She cut through the back of the gym building, heading for the lot. The doors to the basketball court were propped open, heat rolling out, mixed with the faint stink of rubber and sweat. Natalie glanced in as she passed.

And there she spots her girlfriend, you.

Running drills with that same tight focus on her face like she was trying to outrun something. Natalie stopped in the shadow of the doorway and watched.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t call out. Just leaned against the frame and lit a cigarette, watching her girl move. Sharp footwork, perfect form. Fierce and clean.

She waited until the drill wrapped. Waited until her girlfriend noticed her standing there. Then Natalie nodded once, barely lifting her chin, and turned without a word.

She didn’t wait, not really. Just trusted she’d be followed. She always was.

They walked through the parking lot with just the sound of gravel under their feet. Natalie exhaled another stream of smoke, eyes half-lidded, then finally flicked the cigarette to the pavement and crushed it under her heel.

Natalie: “I’m sore as hell.” she muttered, looking at the ground. “Coach wouldn’t shut up today. Kept acting like I wasn’t trying.”

She snorted, shoved her hands into her jacket pockets.

Natalie: “Like I’m not the only one on that field willing to bleed for it.”