Work Text:
Kristie thinks she might be overly sensitive because of the summer. Being close to home reminds her of the long months between terms in college, how she’d feel so utterly alone in her parent’s quiet house at night. That is to say, during the summer, there are fewer ways to distract herself from feeling like she’s not making the most out of life. The national game in Massachusetts, and the goal, helps, incredibly at first. She has to make her way to Syd, after untangling from other teammates. Syd’s smiling, proud of the assist, but there’s a stiffness to the way Syd hugs her like an afterthought.
And then she sees Megan, on the sidelines, in that dumb houndstooth shirt that Kristie can spot from the pitch for god’s sake, lifting Boss in the air like he’s part of the celebration. It’s not even her dog. Kristie doesn’t understand why she has the urge to take him from Megan’s hands.
But it doesn’t stop with Boss. When the whole team is reorganizing in the hallway post game, waiting for the bus back to the hotel, Kristie catches Megan swing her purse at Sydney. Syd’s left ham is getting iced and Megan looks pathetic, like she’s beating on someone who can’t defend herself. Kristie knows better though. She knows Syd would say something if it bothered her too. Instead, Syd just makes a loud, childish noise of annoyance that everyone hears.
“She’s gonna be a pain in my ass this summer,” Heather kids, jabs Kristie with her elbow when she talks.
“Nah, she’ll just guilt you into eating shitty food,” Kristie replies.
Heather laughs, but Kristie doesn’t think it’s all that far from the truth.
When they get to the hotel, there’s a team dinner in the works. The doors are open; they always prop them into the hallways like some ridiculous dorm. Kristie stalls outside Syd’s room, tries to blend into the wallpaper.
“I feel like we should stick with the plan,” Syd says, voice bouncing between the bathroom walls.
Megan leans against the doorframe there, back to the hallway, watching Syd finish her make up.
“She’s not going to care. She has a lot of friends who want to celebrate with her tonight,” Megan conspires.
“Just come with us. Don’t make this into a thing,” Sydney plunges the nozzle on a can of hairspray, thereby drowning out her own voice.
But not Megan’s dramatic cough, which hides the hurried sound of Kristie shuffling away.
She’s not going to care. She has a lot of friends. Kristie hears the words in her mind on a stubborn loop as the elevator descends.
And it’s true--her phone’s been blowing up all night. They’re all texts of congratulations, but they all seem false, thin. Dependent upon something that wasn’t all her own. But the company of her team, just her team, is humbling in a way she needs. During dinner, there’s a pleasant buzz of conversation that keeps her head in the right place.
That is, until some of them split off into varying groups of adventure. Kristie ends up going to a club that doesn’t seem familiar until they’re pouring through the front door. She realizes the place has been renamed, silently, while she’s been away. It’s not that the rafters and strobe lights are familiar because of the previous time she’s spent there, but the idea of returning to something that has changed in identity makes her fall quiet.
So quiet that she merely levels a look at Syd to indicate that she couldn’t care less what Syd brings back for her from the bar. Megan slips away with Sydney, into the crowd of patrons mingling two-deep around the service station.
Megan comes back with Kristie’s glass balanced beside her own. Except she doesn’t know it’s Kristie’s until Syd pointedly takes the glass from Megan and places it on the table in front of Kristie. Like some kind of server. Like some kind of bridge.
“Aw, I thought you bought it for me to double fist,” Megan notes with a false pout.
“You don’t even like gin,” Syd comments, rolls her eyes.
It’s a reaffirming comment, but Kristie can’t see past the doubleness of it all. She can’t help but noticed the underhanded intention--the base knowledge of Megan’s dislikes that trump Kristie’s preferences.
Syd and Megan are game to dance first, seemingly unphased by the threat of an early bus call. Kristie hangs back with her teammates at the table; she acquires a second drink and sips it longingly over the bass.
It’s not quite new music. Every selection is mixed or spliced so the familiar undertones are hidden. Syd still knows all of the words. Kristie can see her mouth them in Megan’s direction as they face each other on the dance floor.
Kristie isn’t one to plan, to prowl so much. But something surges in her when she watches Megan break towards the bathroom. She marches straight there too, feels her heartbeat quickening, tastes pine on her tongue.
The club’s not filling up, but Kristie finds herself shuffling her feet like she’s ready to dart through a crowd.
There’s a far stall closing just as Kristie pushes through the door. So she ducks into the section closest to the sink and waits, hardly breathing.
It’s a bizarrely disconnected moment, considering the thoughts that race double-time through Kristie’s head. She has no plans, just the flames of juniper flaring down her neck.
The pipes rush and Kristie can’t count the seconds anymore. She’s doing this. Her inhalation shakes, thins when she recognizes Megan’s purposeful stride flash in between the stall’s hinges.
It’s quick, the water running, and Kristie unlocking the stall without preamble. A tell, she realizes the moment she steps out and into sight, of her true intentions.
She thinks Megan isn’t one to pass up a chance for condescension. Well, until Megan’s eyebrow jumps with a hushed scoff as she looks Kristie up and down in the mirror.
Kristie strides forward, all limbs, all grain mash in her blood.
“Nice for you to grace my turf,” Kristie spits out, crosses her arms.
Megan twists her soapy hands under the water.
“You have no idea what kind of turf’s in store for you,” Megan delivers into her own reflection. Like she relishes her mouth forming the words, like she can’t tear away from the sight of herself blooming in aggression.
“If that’s a threat, Syd’s gonna hear about it,”
“I’m not trying to steal your crush away, kiddo,” Megan bites.
Her depth of field is cheated in the mirror, but the faucet’s automated, so it shuts off when Kristie forcefully turns Megan to face her.
Megan throws her elbow wide and high in an attempt to shake Kristie’s grip. Kristie dodges, tries to edge something into the last of her pinch on Megan’s arm.
“Isn’t there a bench in France for you to hold down?” Kristie switches her grip on her clutch, shoves it under her bicep to squeeze it close. The contents shift, and she feels her phone vibrate inside.
It’s Megan’s turn to invade the other’s space. And even in that boxy, stupid houndstooth shirt, she still looks spring-loaded.
“This is really cute and protective. But I love watching you pout. So why don’t we go outside and you can wait for Syd’s next command?” Megan taunts.
Kristie’s always been tall, long in the leg, but she can feel her shoulders crumbling with the desire to fold.
Her eyes narrow; her breath huffs through her nose. It takes all the rationale reserved in her body to stand still. Though she’s retreating, the subtlest shift in Kristie’s weight causes Megan to flinch in anticipation. She overcorrects, steps towards the automated dryers. The sensor trips, and blows hot air towards her feet.
Megan tugs her collar forward, swivels towards the door. Kristie feels her lips curl towards her teeth.
“You looked good in the stands,” Kristie observes, emboldened by the rush of movement.
But Megan doesn’t take the bait. The door slams in time with the dryer’s sudden stifling.
When Kristie finally does emerge, straight to the bar for a shot, she should expect exactly what she sees. But that doesn’t stop her nostrils from flaring at the sight of Megan and Syd, elbows close on the bartop, welcoming glasses into the palms of their hands. Megan leads them away from the bar, back towards their table, and Syd’s free hand finds Megan’s collar. Kristie sees it in clear view, despite the shadows from other bodies, the haphazard lighting; despite Syd’s liquorice nails disappearing into the duotone print.
-
On the bus to New Jersey, the next morning, Megan traps Sydney in the window seat while Kristie’s stowing her rollerboard in the cargo. It’s like some awful elementary flashback, a field trip where no one thinks she’s funny. Kristie feels stupid, holding two bananas and settling into an empty row.