Chapter Text
The ugly comment sits with Natalie, slamming into her like a brick wall and triggering a visceral reaction. He reaches towards Lottie’s back, hand trying to squeeze her butt inappropriately. Imaginary walls close around her, suffocating and destructive.
Natalie gasps aloud, physically pained from the comment, feeling like she’s drowning.
Oh fuck that.
“Don’t fucking touch her” comes out of Natalie’s mouth so ragged and pissed she hardly recognizes her own voice. Everything after that is a lightning bolt, almost too fast to grasp.
Then, she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t think twice.
She lurches forward with a determined movement, ready to deal damage.
All the restraint she’s ever had leaves her body in tandem with all the work she’s ever done in therapy.
Is it the alcohol? Maybe. Is it also the fact that Natalie can’t stand homophobic men? Absolutely.
That synergy? Deadly combination.
Nat sees red and cocks her arm back as far as she can before immediately swinging with all her might, surging forward like a torpedo, already mentally connecting the shot in her head, the motion stopped just in time by Lottie who wraps her arms around her to prevent things from getting worse and completely smothering the impact.
Consequently her fist nearly clips Lottie instead, narrowly missing her jaw.
“Fucking dykes,” the guy chides, the derogatory term flowing too easily off his tongue, entirely too amused at how badly he’s worked Natalie up. His body language screams too comfortable, and his group of friends look like the type you need to cover your drink from at all times.
The word grates Natalie's ears.
He continues to linger in front of them, pesky and annoying like a mosquito, egging Natalie on, face asking to be punched. The tormenting continues, a look of sheer haughtiness oozing out of him as her persists.
“You both just need some good dick in your life to get you right.”
Ew.
That really sends her.
Guys like this are the type to spend the entire night trying to hit on you and your friends. They’ll buy you drinks expecting sex in return and love bomb you to death the entire way through. They’ll put their hands on you even when you laugh nervously and try to politely distance yourself, push their way in closer, and end up shoving their tongue in your mouth despite protest.
These are the same guys who will turn around and call you fat or ugly or both the moment you reject them even though you know they were following you around all night like a dog that needs water. These are the types of guys who think they’re never in the wrong.
Pathetic, persistent, icky, gross.
And why was that always the go to line? You just need some good dick. As a bisexual with eyes, Natalie herself still thinks dicks are gross looking. They can feel good, depending on numerous factors, but they weren't attractive the way breasts were. Yeah. Natalie is a tits girl. Sometimes she was no better than a man though and always appreciated a nice ass to go with it.
The smug look on his face is screaming “try me bitch,” and it’s making Natalie want to do just that because she’s not above it.
Natalie postures her body like she’s about to swing again, her jaw still clenched with fury. She shoves him hard enough that he staggers backwards, her body barreling with force, but Lottie intervenes again to de-escalate, getting in between them and grabbing Natalie.
The guy laughs again as he watches them leave, having the gall to high-five his friends proudly. “Just come get me when you need a man in your life,” he sloppily chugs the rest of his beer and belches aloud before waving childishly. “I’ll be here.”
It takes every fiber and every breathing lesson in Natalie’s mind and body not to turn around and kill him.
She fiddled with the rings on her fingers to calm her anxiety, twisting a gold one over and over.
Her head hurts, partially from the alcohol and partially from the anger infesting her body. She can picture the scenario—her hand grabbing that stupid beer bottle from him and slamming it over his head, the way the glass would shatter, shards all over the stained wooden floor.
In the best case scenario, she gets one good hit in and security ideally comes to her rescue, escorting him out for trying to retaliate.
In the worst case scenario, Natalie’s the one walking out with handcuffs.
Both unfavorable situations.
Traditionally, her luck falls towards the latter.
Lottie grounds her.
Like she always does.
Too well.
“Natalie don’t. It’s not worth it. Come on, come outside with me,” Lottie begs, her hands quick to restrain her even tighter as Natalie snarls with rage. Her voice trembles but doesn’t break, and it’s clear that she’s been in this type of situation before.
They step outside, Lottie practically dragging Natalie the entire way and forcing her to quite literally take a breather.
“Look at me,” the brunette coaxes, doing her best to keep herself calm too. She reaches for Natalie’s hand and rubs circles with her thumb.
While Lottie’s voice is soothing, there’s concern, shrinking and scared.
“Natalie.”
The blonde doesn’t react. She’s still, statuesque, as if she’s scared everything around her will erupt if she moves (which may be valid, considering she was the volcano).
Lottie says her name like it’s scripture again. Like saying it aloud will heal everything. Natalie is fuming, practically biting her tongue to keep from exploding.
“Natalie,” she repeats. Slower. Softer.
Too soft.
“People are stupid,” she continues carefully, trying not to be a misery hype woman and rile the tension back up. Her body language says it all, her eyes begging Natalie: Don’t focus on them.
I know people are stupid, Natalie thinks to herself. That’s the fucking problem. It’s always other people that ruin everything. Natalie hates that. You can be the best person on earth and there will be someone who fucks it up for everyone anyway. What's that saying? One bad apple spoils the barrel.
“Fuck that guy Lottie he was a fucking dickhead,” Natalie all but screams, the veins in her neck bulging. “I’ll beat the shit out of him I swear.”
Violence might have to be the answer tonight.
Seriously.
“He shouldn’t have touched you like that,” Natalie says, possessive and still growing more and more irate by the second.
She’s about a breath away from crashing out and for a moment, Lottie looks like she might let her.
“I know." the phrase is so simply, so easy.
“Why didn’t you let me? I was going to pummel him.” Natalie has to unclench her jaw to relieve some of her tension and rage.
“I…I almost hit you instead,” and now Natalie feels sorry. “I could’ve hurt you Lot.”
Lottie is unfazed, instead pulling her in tighter, not letting up for a moment. It feels like a weighted blanket, a huge bear hug.
Homey. It feels homey.
She doesn’t explain anything, doesn’t blame her either. Just gives them both a second to process the uncomfortable situation and breathe.
“It’s okay. I’m okay. I just want you to be safe.”
Safe?
What about you? She wants to ask, the question dying on the tip of her tongue. He tried to fucking grope you.
The contact, the comfort, the care, the warmth…all of it overwhelms Natalie.
She wants to strangle that guy. Teach him a lesson. Knock his fucking teeth out. Blacken his eye. Bloody his nose.
Make sure he never harasses anyone ever again.
Just because Lottie says she’s okay doesn’t mean that what he did was okay. Natalie can’t tolerate it. Her body physically wanted to expunge that entire experience.
That sickening feeling knots tighter and tighter, like a chokehold around her throat.
Homophobic moments were always hard to stomach, particularly when she was front and center. Throughout her life, they’d only happened a handful of times thankfully, and most of the time, she wasn’t in imminent danger. There were also couple of scenarios that were inappropriate. Guys slid their phone numbers to both her and whatever girl she was dating at the time despite them explicitly saying they weren’t interested and trying to enjoy their meal and mind their own business. Other times, guys she would date fetishized her bisexuality, often asking when they could include another person.
Natalie has been through the wringer, and for the most part, up until now, she’s been able to handle it.
Tonight, she can’t let it go—not even when Lottie looks at her with those dark brown eyes that seemed to only soften for her. Her fists are still balled up, that feeling of disdain fueling every negative thought.
Natalie tries to breathe, tries to calm the storm that was inevitably brewing in her. It’s no use.
The spiraling happens quickly.
“This is why I don’t do shit like this Lottie,” Natalie abruptly breaks away from Lottie’s grip and walks further away from the club. Her breath is quickening as she tries to ignore the tightening in her throat and the quivering of her lip.
Her chest aches and her body braces for what it thinks is imminent danger.
Lottie is quick and matches her stride for stride, her long legs working double time. When she easily catches up to her, the brunette reaches forward, gripping her shoulder and turning her around to face up. She looks stunned but somehow not surprised.
“Don’t do what exactly?” The question comes out achingly, Lottie undoubtedly trying disguise her hurt as something else. Her eyes failing to hide the tiny hint of sorrow—like she already knows what’s coming and is bracing for impact too.
PDA.
Love.
Relationships.
Attachment.
Spending the rest of her life defending herself and her partner against homophobia.
Commitment.
All that shit.
“This,” Natalie slowly says instead, gesturing between them both. “You and me,” she manages as an attempted clarification, but she has no idea what she’s trying to say or where she’s trying to go with all of this because every answer seems wrong anyway.
“Whatever this is.”
Yep. Really blowing it now.
Did she really want to have to worry about the possibility of dealing with guys like this all the time? Everywhere she went? Could she handle that? Being with someone who was always going to draw attention? Everywhere they went? Staving off gross and icky men like this forever? Why is she even saying the word forever like they’re something when they’re not?
Lottie studies her face, keeping poised. She looks like she’s pondering saying something, choosing instead to hold her tongue as Natalie maunders on, the hole she keeps digging for herself getting deeper and deeper.
“I can’t…it’s just,” her voice shakes now, a devastating earthquake cracking the surface.
“Just what?” Lottie’s voice is so soft Natalie’s not even sure she heard the response correctly. She looks away, like she’s afraid of what might come out of Natalie's mouth, and she knows they’re doomed.
I love you, but I’m scared.
I love you, but I know you’ll hurt me.
I love you, but I know I’ll hurt you.
I love you, but I can’t say it without running.
I love you, but I don’t know what to do with it.
I love you, but everyone I’ve ever loved has always left.
I love you, but I have to leave first before you leave me.
I love you, I meant it when I said it before.
I love you, would you say it back?
I love you, do you love me too?
The brunette’s top lip quivers, and she bites down in anticipation for the worst.
Natalie can’t let Lottie see her cry. Never in a million years. Over her dead body. Even if she did for some miraculous reason, it wouldn’t be here, yards away from a fucking sticky ass dumb ass bar.
In her years of college thus far, nobody has ever seen her in tears. The closest instance was a gut wrenching intramural final where she missed a penalty in a shootout that would’ve won them the game. They fought so hard to try and keep their lead, only to give it up within seconds prior to full time. Natalie was one of the last penalty takers. All she needed to do was to score to win the game. Prior to that, the midfielder could probably take penalties in her sleep. She felt comfortable switching it up to, not necessarily always going down one side. She liked low driven shots with power, a cheeky chip here and there, and of course high blasts into the upper corners. The only thing she kept consistent was her run-up. Short, maybe three or four steps at best. When she went to take that penalty, the goalkeeper had stepped in front of her to delay her for a moment.
Those antics did just enough to make Natalie rethink and reposition the ball. Suddenly, she felt psyched out, her brain malfunctioning like she's never taken a penalty before. The ball wasn’t in the right place anymore, and even though she repositioned it (probably to the exact same spot it was originally at), something felt off. She took her trademark exhale and stepped forward, aiming hard and low to the right corner.
The keeper read it all the way through and made a ridiculous save—she went early, cheating towards the right before Natalie shot. She didn’t see it. Had she looked up for just a second, she may have been able to change her mind and go the other way with a simple pass into the goal to seal the deal. The save was probably millimeters of fingertips, enough to tip it off the post and out.
It sucked the wind out of her as they lost, Natalie immediately sinking to her knees, bummed for days. She fought for her life not to cry on the field, instead bawling her eyes out at home.
This circumstance feels eerily similar, and yet somehow, this also hurts infinitely more.
“It’s too much Lottie.”
The terrible blunder escapes her before she can do anything to stop it.
Regret immediately fumes off of her, and Natalie knows. It’s a shitty ass excuse that leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. Her forte. It was always one step forward and two steps back. She wants to rip her own vocal chords out to stop her from mangling anything else.
Lottie hardly wavers, barely even reacting at the sentiment. Any other person would probably freak out too, given the calamity. Lottie kept her tranquil focus.
“Natalie slow down,” Lottie tries again, her voice patient and softer now. She runs her thumb gently on Natalie’s hand, soothing her to the best of her ability.
She should. She should take a breath, take a second, something.
She doesn't.
The air around them is crisp, chilling.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
That stings the most tonight, it sounding like an unspoken I love you.
It still is too much though.
Even if Natalie is the only one putting the pressure on things.
“Don’t,” Natalie pleads, her eyes reddening, seconds away from bursting into tears. Lottie’s response is too good, too wholesome, too easy. She doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve the turmoil that is Natalie.
A singular tear daringly tries to escape and trickle its way down her cheek.
Lottie notices.
Lottie always notices. Because it’s Lottie. Because maybe, just maybe, the feeling is mutual, the love not at all unrequited - a reason that doesn't seem logical in Natalie's brain, a belief that she can simply not buy into.
“Please don’t,” Natalie repeats, her voice begging, and maybe she’s talking to herself at this point, willing herself to not break—unsuccessfully. “I just,” her throat threatening to close as she tries to clear it.
She has to leave. She has to leave because she knows Lottie will reach up and wipe it for her and that will really ruin her. She has to leave now before she can get hurt by her.
Resorting back to old ways, tearing off the band aid and destroying all the progress she’s made.
She has to leave first.
Again.
Ruining things.
Again.
It’s childish and avoidant, but the words are already spewing out—with no regard for anyone or anything.
“I just need some space.”
There’s a disappointment that sneaks in between them, no matter how hard Lottie tries to hide it.
“Natalie wait—"
Lottie’s voice rings in her ears but Natalie doesn’t look back as her eyes start to well with tears.
Natalie doesn’t talk to anyone.
For days.
She hardly even eats.
The major red flag was her not responding in the soccer group chat when Jackie was asking if they wanted to match shirts for the semifinal or at least all wear the same color.
They were expecting Natalie to say something snarky in the chat since she wasn’t one for unnecessary fluff or theatrics, but it never came.
Game day comes quickly.
Begrudgingly, she wills herself to go to the fields early for the game. The weather was ideal—mid 70s with some sunshine and a slight breeze. She owed it to herself.
Natalie throws her hair into a bun and is about to lace her cleats up before being interrupted.
“Scatorccio,” Shauna Shipman’s is voice immediately recognizable.
Natalie sighs.
“What do you want Shauna?”
“You’ve got two minutes. Spill. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Great. Isn't that a fucking loaded question?
Shauna did occasionally have good instincts.
Kinda.
They talked here and there, so it wasn’t completely out of the blue.
“I keep running from a good thing,” an exhausted confession spewing from Natalie’s mouth.
“Why?” Shauna asks point blank before Natalie can even get her entire thought out.
“Because it’s easier.” The soundboard of hearing it back feels stupid.
“You’re being self-deprecating again aren’t you?”
Oop.
“Maybe,” Natalie admits sadly, shrugging to herself. “I’ve just never known any different.”
“And it’ll stay that way so long as you keep depriving yourself of the opportunity,” Shauna casually says.
“Not everyone is out to get you, you know.” The phrase should be comforting, but it’s far from it.
Natalie feels attacked.
“You came early to lecture me or what?”
“No,” Shauna is quick to answer, tossing a Gatorade her way. “I came early to make sure you weren’t dead.”
Shauna chews on her lip momentarily, eyeing a fidgeting Natalie in front of her. "You can let yourself have good things you know."
That’s probably the nicest thing she’s said to her in a while.
"Also, answer your phone next time," Shauna mutters somewhat bitterly.
That's what this is about.
"You scared Jackie."
Of course I did, Natalie thinks to herself.
Truthfully, Natalie debated on dipping out from the second playoff game because she felt a little under the weather...
At least, that would have been her excuse.
She wasn’t really sick per se. She just felt like shit.
Besides, Jackie would kill her if she missed out on the semifinals for a bullshit reason judging from the way she sent Shauna after her for not texting back.
Natalie feels off still. She was always bad at hiding her emotions, especially the negative ones. Everything is always draped on her sleeve, painted over her face.
Right now? Everything is spinning.
Mentally she tries to remind herself: be where your feet are.
The rest of her teammates file in, and they all get to stretching.
Lottie is the last one to arrive, quietly shuffling and moving to help Van warm-up.
They don't interact. Lottie is stone cold, doesn't even bother looking her way.
For Natalie, her movements during warmup feel all wrong: uncoordinated, choppy, off-balanced, overthinking. Her cleats suddenly feel tight around her feet.
She shanks half her shots, a feat that is painfully unlike her.
Mari sees.
So was everyone gonna take turns checking in on her? In some ways she was thankful because she knew they didn’t have to—but it was a lot to handle right now.
“Yo Scatorccio, the goal is this way you know,” she laughs lightheartedly as she rips a shot that flies by Van and blazes into the net.
Natalie rolls her eyes but stays silent, and that’s shocking too.
“What, no smart ass comeback?”
The blonde grumbles something under her breath and ignores her, instead jogging to shag her ball.
Mari chases after her, her eyes full of concern. “Hey. You okay?”
“Not really,” Natalie replies shortly. “Don’t want to talk about it.”
Mari doesn’t question it.
“All right,” her hand gently pats her shoulder. “Well I’m here if you want to talk. For now, just keep your emotions out of the game.”
She knows it’s not a direct jab at her, but something in her wants to take it personal.
Natalie isn’t notorious for playing emotionally charged. However, in general, their team often reflected the energy of the majority. If one person was negative, it usually caught on like wildfire.
Some people play well when they’re angry and frustrated because they’re able to channel all that extra pent up energy as fuel—Natalie is not one of those people. When she’s pissed, her decision making status to get foggy, and her play gets sloppy.
Overtime, she started getting a better handle on her emotions, at least, in sports.
When she can catch that she’s feeling off, she usually starts playing simpler. One to two touches max, often opting to stick to easy one touch passes. Playing simple was the best way to get of her head, avoiding errant passes.
The team they play looks familiar, a few girls Natalie recognizes from last semester’s semifinal. They play like they’re out for blood, a clear rivalry and some sort of vendetta against the Yellowjackets.
Their opponents, a team named Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlbo$$, are all over them. Swarming the ball, smothering any attacking chances, negating most of the Yellowjacket offense.
They’re in trouble early.
One too many touches, erratic, last-ditch defending, not so smart tackles, putting teammates in poor scenarios.
Taissa played Natalie a dangerous ball that she had to reach for, the pass a bit too far in front of her. She’s confident she can still manage to get there; the getting out of the pressure was going to be the challenge.
She knows she has to try hard for it because if she doesn’t get there, they’re as risk for a turnover and a fast counter. The closest person to them is Shauna, and even then she’s a few yards away and would be too late.
The midfielders from the other team closes the space rapidly, and one of them makes contact with Natalie.
She gets cleated. Hard. It’s probably no more than ten minutes into the game on top of that.
The tackle is wild and erratic.
A head full of sharp studs digs straight into her ankle, the pain sharp and instantaneous. It sends her flying and taking a tumble before hitting the ground.
The contact happens so fast Natalie has no chance to break her fall.
The midfielder sucks her teeth and lets out a shrieking “fuck” that echoes across the field, turf beads stuck all over her now.
A bruise is already forming, she can tell without looking solely by the way her leg throbs.
Oh, and there’s blood. The studs inevitably broke skin, raw and stinging, an immediate stream of red smudging into her white socks. RIP to those.
The whistle gets blown immediately, a blistering sound hurting Natalie’s ears. She blacks out for a second, completely in a tizzy as the pain finally hitting her as the adrenaline starts to subside.
Everything aches.
When she reorients, tempers are flaring from someone she never would have expected.
Cool, calm, and collected Lottie is anything but. She’s charging over already in the face of the offender, both of them ticking time bombs, yelling expletives and seconds away from doing something they would both regret.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Lottie growls, loud and charged.
The girl has no problem dishing it back, rolling her eyes at the defender. “What? It’s soccer. It’s a fucking contact sport. People shouldn’t play if they can’t handle that.” Her voice is snobby and unapologetic.
“You didn’t even go for the fucking ball,” Lottie moves swiftly, closing the space, invasive, angry, nearly a carbon copy of Natalie the night of the bar. The person who tackled Natalie isn’t even short, but when she stands next to Lottie she seems small still. Lottie had that effect.
“Lottie,” both Jackie and Taissa attempt to calm her, each of them reaching to try to hold her back before something worse ensues.
“Chill,” Taissa beckons firmly, astonished at the predicament.
Lottie doesn't flinch. Her better judgement finally decides to join the party, allowing her to take one step towards her teammates, choosing to be the bigger person even though she’s still fuming.
The opposing player laughs in her face.
“Yeah, that’s right. You better back up bitch. Go make yourself useful and maybe help your poor little teammate.”
Natalie hears the next part clear as day.
“Fuck you,” Lottie snarls, the exchange vexing her. She’s already whirled around, a complete 180, and reaching to shove her before anyone else can stop it.
Nobody has ever heard Lottie swear except for Natalie, who luckily has had the blessing of hearing it in the bedroom. This time it comes out furiously, the words burning a hole into the other girl’s skin practically.
Adrenaline fuels Lottie’s strength, easily overpowering both Jackie and Taissa, her fist almost decking the girl’s nose.
It’s a shit show.
An all-out brawl really.
They get into it, tangled and pushing and scratching. Bodies go flying, with players from both teams trying to doggy pile in and protect their respective teammate.
The young sideline referees panic, unsure of what to do next, and that spurs the center ref, a lanky guy with thick glasses, to try and take charge.
The whistle blows again, this time louder and prolonged. “HEY! That’s enough,” he pulls Lottie and the other girl apart, doing his best to halt the situation. “I should eject you both, but since this is playoffs, I’m going to let you off the hook a bit. Consider this a gift.”
Both players get yellow carded, a kind and miraculous decision made by the referee. Everyone knows it. It should be red.
“If this happens again, you’ll both be sent off. No warnings next time.” The ref’s voice grows more stern, not quite matching his shy and somewhat awkward demeanor. “Now walk away.”
The two of them oblige, only barely.
“I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” the referee grumbles to himself, shaking his head as he documents the two yellow cards onto his clipboard.
The game gets halted for a few minutes, a mandatory timeout for injury.
Lottie turns and subs herself off for a while to calm down, Akilah quickly replacing her. We love a self-aware queen. She goes to refill a water bottle, not uttering a word to anyone.
“Geez,” Mari chuckles, beaming towards Lottie like a proud soccer mom. “Didn’t think she had it in her.”
“I mean she did play D1,” Taissa recalls. “I’m sure she’s had a couple of similar scuffles. This is probably light work.”
"Yeah," Mari agrees, the smile refusing to leave her face. "It's always the quiet ones. Honestly? I'm here for it."
The Yellowjackets redirect their energy towards the more important thing—tending to Natalie and her injury.
Taissa and Shauna pick Natalie up, draping her arms around them as they serve as her human crutches. When they make it to the sideline, Taissa eases the midfielder down gently.
“You okay? How bad is it?”
Pretty bad.
Natalie winces, looking down at her leg. “Yeah, I'm fine. Don’t think I can do much on it though.”
Jackie called the trainer over who quickly wraps Natalie’s ankle and applies an ice pack. She wipes the blood first, and then the cold stings immediately, Natalie trying her best to brace for it to worsen.
When she wiggles her foot as a test, everything is still intact. Natalie tries to stand up and wobbles, unable to put much weight on her leg without feeling the nagging pain.
On a scale of 1-10, the injury is probably at a 7.5—not the worst, though certainly not a breeze.
If they really needed her, Natalie could probably suck it up and make her way through the game. It would be agonizing, and any contact would probably make it worse, but she could power through.
It's a shame because she was doing so well this year, escaping injuries and staying fit for every game thus far.
Natalie is a trooper, for better or for worse. She’s played through worse: on sprained wrists, torn ligaments, broken ribs.
Jackie wasn’t going to take that chance. She’d rather have her healthy for the final if they can make it there.
“All right,” Jackie claps her hands together. “We can’t let this take us off our game. Let’s kick their ass. For Natalie.”
The Yellowjackets break out as a team (Jackie makes them literally say “for Natalie”), and Lottie rejoins them to go again—focused and tame now.
Things stay heated, intensity amping up during the game. Tackles are harder, bruises galore, fouls start racking up on both sides.
Their opponents score first, immediately deflating them. A defender pinged a nicely timed ball down the line towards a right winger who blew by Taissa, a clear miscommunication between her and Laura Lee. The slight hesitation between the two of them gave the midfielder that tiny opportunity to breeze through and shoot.
The shot is a curler and is originally saved by Van who only managed to parry into a dangerous spot six yards out. Nobody can get to it fast enough, so a striker doing what they should be doing crashes the net and taps in the fortuitous gift.
There’s groans of frustration all around.
Lottie gathers everyone immediately into a huddle to stop the negativity. “I know I threw us off our pace, that’s my bad. We can do this though. Let’s take a breath and clear our heads and throw the last few minutes away. Play like it’s 0-0.” She claps her hands hard, loudly, intensely, riling the team back up.
The center back was usually a silent leader, someone who did it by example. The fact that she stepped forward, took accountability, and spoke up was admirable.
That seems to help.
They kick off again, trying to pick up the pace and clean up their passes.
Gaslight, gatekeep, whatever the hell doesn’t show any signs up letting up. Play goes back and forth, possession about even at this point. The Yellowjackets work the ball from the back, unable to penetrate through the pesky defense of their opponents.
The thing about a good soccer player is they’re dependable—you know you can always call on them when you need something: a game saving stop, a goal to kill the game off, etc so long as you put them in that situation to give them the opportunity. The thing about a great soccer player is they can always make something out of nothing.
Lottie does exactly that.
The defender makes a run with the ball, easily winning by stepping in front to cut a pass off. She starts traversing , bombing forward across the half way line with ease. With her head up, she plays a quick 1-2 pass with Shauna before cutting into the box. There’s a sliver of space, and Lottie has about a split second to decide whether she wants to dish it or shoot it.
In her peripheral, Mari and Jackie are both waving frantically and yelling for the ball.
“Send it Lottie!” Van yells from the keeper box all the way behind her.
The girl who fouls Natalie treks back, lunging in and trying to win the ball. Aware of the pressure, Lottie cuts the ball back towards her left foot and sends her sliding in the completely wrong direction.
Her cut is nasty. She knows it too, if the tiny smirk on her face is any indication. There are a couple teams and random bystanders watching on the sidelines waiting for the game after theirs, and the “oohs” of shock are loud.
Lottie has one last peek at what’s in front of her and calls her own number, taking matters into her own hands. Great players often do that too.
She takes the shot, the other girl still embarrassed having barely gotten up from the turf.
It’s the first time she’s done it during playoffs, usually electing to play in crosses or switches from further back.
Lottie hits it with conviction, choosing to go with the inside of her foot, curling it to the far post. The keeper dives, fully extended, completely unable to keep it out.
A lefty shot always seems to hit different.
Natalie’s played with a handful of left-footed players in her time, and they brought a level of flare that couldn’t be replicated. The way they struck the ball felt smoother, always naturally with more bend somehow.
The moment is poetic all the way through. Lottie scoring, for one, and doing so in a way that completely embarrasses the girl that was causing a raucous. You couldn’t write it any better than that really. It feels like the sweetest shot of revenge anyone could ever conjure up.
When Lottie scores, a flip switches and a different side of her is unleashed. She celebrates fully, a loud yell releasing all her pent up emotions.
She stands intentionally next to the girl she spun inside out and yells fuck yeah as long as she can, practically in her ear.
That, depending on the referee, could also have been a yellow card. This one seems like he couldn’t care less.
Natalie chuckles a bit on the sideline, the ice pack helping soothe some of the swelling. She liked this side of Lottie.
Well, who was she kidding. She liked every side.
During halftime, most of the team goes to check on Natalie after they hype the goal up.
Not Lottie.
It’s not like Natalie was the type to want to be coddled, but seriously?
Not even a “you okay?” Sheesh.
That fucking blows. They haven't said a word to each other all day.
It’s probably what she deserves though, after everything she's put her through.
Kick-off resumes, the second half underway within the blink of an eye.
Natalie finds herself feeling useless and chewing on her nails, a habit she can't quite seem to curb, in addition to the cigarettes. Playing soccer was way different than watching it, and being sidelined right now reminded her way she didn’t usually watch it in the first place. It was so easy to get emotionally invested and therefore emotionally drained.
The team wins narrowly, a 2-1 victory with the second goal courtesy of Akilah who sealed the deal by scoring a nice driven free kick after Jackie won the foul right outside the box.
Thank God. They were moving onto the ship. Let’s fucking go.
Relief overwhelms the blonde, and now she can focus on recovering quickly to be at full throttle for their last game of the season.
When the game ends, Natalie can’t quite get up comfortably to go shake hands with the other team. It’s probably better this way because who knows if she can stand face to face with the girl who tried to break her fucking ankle.
As she eyes her team, she sees Lottie go through and shake everyone’s hand—except you know who.
Still bitter and butt hurt, the other girl willingly withdraws her hand away with no remorse when they pass by each other in line, and Lottie almost laughs at the childishness.
“Grow up. You’ve got such sore loser energy.”
“Me? You’re the one doing the most. It’s just fucking intramural,” she barks. “It’s not that serious.”
Lottie’s eyes narrow again, the same look Natalie saw when they were disturbed by the homophobic douchebag. There’s an unquenched fire, an uneasy churning in her stomach.
This Lottie was about to wreak absolute havoc.
“It is that serious,” the reply is sharp, jabbing, and quick. With a promising threat to follow-up: “And if you touch any of my teammates like that again, you’ll be sorry.”
The girl scoffs and opens her mouth but ultimately falters, instead walking away in defeat.
Lottie casually jogs back to the sideline to take her cleats off and gather her things as if nothing happened. She makes eye contact with Natalie and doesn’t shy away. Both of them hesitate, neither wanting to break the silence.
Finally, Natalie speaks.
“You didn’t have to do that for me.”
Lottie zips her bag unbothered.
“I know.”
“So why did you?”
Lottie glances at her. Normally, Lottie was someone who conveyed most of her emotions in her eyes.
Tonight, they’re a blank canvas.
Completely desolate and tired.
“I’d do it for anyone.”
Natalie knows that’s not a lie, though she can’t help the feeling she’s being cheated out of a more direct answer. There has to be more than that, but Lottie wasn't giving it to her. Lottie says it matter-of-fact, like she knows Natalie wouldn’t do the same for her, and that’s what practically destroys her, not the fact that she doesn’t ask about her injury at all.
As she glances up achingly, Lottie’s already turning to leave, her voice short and direct, purely emotionless.
“Bye Natalie.”