You promised Lottie that you’d watch the game.
Now, could anyone really blame you for being late? You’d missed the whole school day curled under a blanket, aching and exhausted, so maybe—maybe—you should’ve stayed home.
But it was Lottie.
And you were what, ten minutes late? Max.
The whistle had already blown for the first quarter when you slipped into the back row of the bleachers, throat dry, heart pounding. The sun was low, gold spilling across the field. Lottie was in the center—fast, sharp, a streak of motion that pulled your eyes like gravity.
Even from this far, you could tell when she clicked into rhythm—chin high, eyes narrowed, the kind of focus that silenced everything.
Then she scored.
Clean strike. The crowd roared. She paused, breathless, scanning the stands.
You raised your arm. Maybe she saw.
After the whistle blew and the field emptied, you waited—knees pulled to your chest, jacket doing nothing against the wind.
Eventually, the locker room door opened and there she was, dragging her bag behind her.
You tackled her from behind, arms around her waist, lifting her into a laughing spin.
“HEY!” she yelped, half-laughing, half-shouting.
“You were incredible,” you breathed into her shoulder.
She twisted to face you. “You were late.”
“I know. I didn’t want to miss it. Still sick.”
“You look sick.”
“Thanks. So do you, sweat queen.”
She socked your arm. “Still better than you.”
“True,” you grinned. “Let me carry your bag. I’m walking you home.”
“You live the other way.”
“Worth it.”
She handed it over. The walk was mostly quiet. Sometimes her hand brushed yours.
At the Matthew’s gate, you paused.
“I’m sorry I was late. I’ll do better.”
She looked at you a second longer than she needed to, then leaned in and kissed your cheek.
“Apology accepted.”
You watched her jog up the steps. Just before she disappeared, she looked back.
“Pick me up in the morning.”
And then she was gone.
The next morning, you were there.
Wrapped in your jacket, hood up, sniffling.
The door opened. “You actually came.”
“Told you I would.”
“You still look awful.”
“Consistent.”
She hooked her arm through yours.
At the school gate, you stopped.
“Not coming in. Still feel like crap. But I’ll be at practice.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Drink water or I’ll punch you.”
“Romantic.”
She nudged you away. “Go. Rest.”
And this time, you were.
Early.
Curled on the bleachers, jacket pulled tight, head resting against cold metal. Sniffling, coughing softly, eyes fixed on the field.
Lottie was flying again—commanding, fluid, loud even when you couldn’t hear her.
When practice ended, she walked straight to you.
You barely reacted until she stepped up beside you and ran a hand through your hooded hair.
Then she frowned.
“You’re burning up.”
Her palm touched your forehead.
“I’m fine,” you muttered.
“You’re not.”
You looked up—fever-glassy, still smiling.
“You played great.”
She shook her head, hand still there.
“Idiot,” she murmured. “My idiot.”