Chapter Text
1. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Tobin catches the bag of ice but throws a glare at Christen and her knowing smirk.
So what if she decided to fight the post and lose? So what if Christen had yelled at her from the other side of the pitch not to even try it? So what if Kelley was attempting an assist from the top row of the bleachers?
This is not Tobin’s fault.
If anything, she’s the brave one. Christen doesn’t have an unspoken badge of honor from being the one to always accept a challenge. Christen doesn’t have the unending respect of her fellow teamma—
“Ow! Hey!”
Christen doesn’t have a visible bruise on her shoulder that smarts when yet another ice pack lands on her. Tobin grumbles some more as she takes over holding the pack in place from Christen’s warm hands, but her rolling eyes express the thanks she’ll never say out loud.
2. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Christen calls out, seeing the sole occupant of the pitch. She spotted Tobin half a block away, her juggling form unmistakable when it could have been any of the other girls, or maybe even one of the guys. She should have known Tobin would be out here, hours before practice, after their disaster of a game last night.
“Hey,” is the quiet, unusually subdued greeting.
Once she gets close enough, Tobin passes her the ball, not even trying to nutmeg her.
That’s how she knows it’s bad.
None of them had a good game. The midfielders and the forwards never clicked, and the defenders were absolutely bushed by the second half. But Tobin—Tobin had their only good look, and it went wide.
Christen knows exactly what to do. She ignores the cones and poles set out and dribbles to about the spot where Alex had gotten the cross off. Tobin stares at her, fists clenched, mouth in a firm line, body radiating anger. Then she uncurls, shakes her arms loose, and trudges to the corner of the box.
Christen sends in the cross, Tobin chests it down, and it rattles the frame.
She grabs another ball. This one goes over. The next sails into the top right corner. Over and over and over until the rest of the team arrives, and Coach yells at them for wrecking their bodies the day after a rough game.
3. “What, are you scared?”
Christen teases when the street lamp above them goes out suddenly, and Tobin full on yelps and collides into her back.
“No,” she immediately denies but wraps both hands around Christen’s bicep and clings to her side.
Even though Tobin can’t see it, Christen rolls her eyes and comes to a stop, turning until she thinks she’s facing the other girl. With a suppressed grin, Christen whispers, “Lumos,” and, like magic, there’s a faint glow between them.
In the bluish light, Tobin looks awed and transfixed but then she glances down to find the source of the light, and it’s Christen’s cell phone, face up and screen on.
“You’re such a dork,” Tobin whines, turning and setting off for the next street corner with a working light bulb.
“And you’re such a baby!” Christen taunts, jogging to catch up, “Can’t wait to tell the team you’re scared of the dark.”
4. “Are you always this stupid, or are you just trying to impress me?”
Tobin blinks then just stares at Christen.
She knows Christen is just joking. She knows it. Knows it from the exasperated tone and the rolling eyes and the two-handed smoothing down of her ponytail and the gnawed lower lip. Tobin really knows that gnawed lower lip.
That’s not... what’s important right now.
What’s important right now is that Christen is definitely joking but she might also be hitting close to a truth?
Which Tobin is kind of just realizing herself?
“Uh,” she falters. Her ball’s rolled away, inconveniently, at some point, no longer a necessary distraction. Why can’t she just nutmeg her way out of this awkward moment? “I mean. Whatever you need to believe, CP. Not my fault I’m better than you.”
Then Tobin runs. Literally runs away from the awkwardness and a now pissed off Christen and her own revelation.
5. “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”
Christen is shivering, standing in the middle of the locker room without her shirt on. That’s because her previously white training shirt is now tie-dyed a bright, neon, highlighter pink. And there’s one obvious culprit. Someone who asked her to try tie-dying this weekend and was obviously annoyed when Christen said “no.” Said “no” and added on that she didn’t trust Tobin with temporary Easter egg dye, never mind the permanent stuff.
When she turns around to give her best unimpressed stare, Tobin is grinning smugly, an expression that drops for a second as she glances at Christen’s bare stomach, once then twice more.
“Good thing my favorite color’s pink,” she shrugs and gamely pulls the shirt on, “but you’re explaining this to Coach.”
Tobin, obviously, denies any blame.
But that’s fine because next week, Tobin’s shirt and shorts end up a bright, neon, highlighter orange. Christen grins to herself when Tobin sighs, “Good thing my favorite color’s orange.”
6. “Nice shirt. Did you get it from my grandma’s closet?”
Tobin snickers to herself at her own insult.
Christen slaps at her shoulder but smiles anyway. “Shut up, I like it.”
“You look like my grandma,” Tobin repeats with another smirk.
This time, Christen adopts a haughty look. “Well, then, your grandmother has good taste. So does your mom. Did it skip your generation?” she asks, plucking at the sleeve of Tobin’s ratty hoodie from high school.
It takes her a second, because Christen’s touch on the inside of her wrist is, like, slowing down her brain cells or something, but then, “Hey!”
7. “You can stop pretending to be tough now. It’s just me.”
The locker room is empty. The team cleared out long ago, and the last of the medical staff just minutes before. Christen can feel the griminess of her kit, the unavoidable dirt and sweat of a hard game, sticking to her uncomfortably.
She’s not going to move, though. Not for the world. Not yet.
There’s a pained groan, one Christen’s all too familiar with. When she finally lifts her head, Tobin’s eyes are glassy, the skin around them tight with lines, all traces of her baby face gone.
“Chris,” her whisper sounds wrecked, “It’s my knee.”
Immediately, she’s on the bench next to Tobin. Their whole sides are pressed together, but she won’t put an arm around her or anything. That would be crossing a line.
“Put that attitude away. It could just be a bad knock. Ice and painkillers now and x-ray in the morning. I don’t want your sad sack whining.”
Her words are sharp and crisp and no nonsense, and Tobin almost gives her a smile when she retorts, “Yes, ma’am. When did Becky make you captain?”
“Don’t call me ma’am,” Christen gasps in exaggerated horror, “or you’ll find out what a busted knee really feels like.”
That gets her the smile she’s been looking for.
8. “Do you always use that line when trying to pick up girls?”
Christen squints one eye and stares suspiciously at the two beers Tobin returned with, on the house based on the larger bill she threw in the tip jar.
“What line?” Tobin asks with a smirk poorly concealed behind her glass.
Aside from pursing her lips, Christen doesn’t respond. Next round is her shout after all.
Twenty minutes later, Christen returns from the bar with another set of free drinks. God, how does this place even stay in business? And why is she getting more satisfaction from the annoyed scrunch to Tobin’s forehead than the phone number of the admittedly hot bartender in her hand?
9. “Please don’t make me say it.”
Tobin’s pouting and putting on her best puppy dog eyes. Maybe keeping that act up will distract herself from the way Christen has her cornered in the locker room. She’s got a dangerous smirk on her face, a combination of smug and gleeful, as she leans in and obliterates Tobin’s personal space.
It’s distractingly hot.
No, wait, just like a normal amount of distracting. Nothing hot about it.
Tobin still swallows, a little nervously, when Christen tilts her head and her curls tumble forward, making the space even more intimate. Damn it, she’s too gay for this.
“Say it!” Christen demands in a low whisper, her eyes sparking playfully but fiercely.
“Fine,” Tobin chokes out before she passes out from sensory overload, “You won.”
Christen throws her arms up and victory dances away from Tobin as half the locker room whoops in celebration. Heart pounding, Tobin sags against the wall and ignores Kelley pulling a face that’s the human equivalent of OMFG.
10. “I can’t tell if I’m in love with you or if all that cold medicine I took is finally starting to kick in.”
Christen sniffles as she contemplates the bowl of chicken noodle soup Tobin all but forced on her. It’s the first thing she’s been able to smell all week and the first solid food that hasn’t made her want to go pay homage to the porcelain god. She looks up, proud of herself for managing to come up with something close to witty with this much medicine coursing through her system, and finds Tobin staring at her.
Tobin’s adorably wide-eyed behind her glasses, hands fidgeting inside the extra long sleeves of her oversized sweatshirt. “Wh—what?”
Christen holds up the bowl, tilts the remnants a little but not enough to spill, and clarifies, “Thanks for this? It’s, like, the only thing that’s made me feel human in days. Days, Tobin.”
“Oh, right,” Tobin whips her head around to look at the door. “You’re good, right? Don’t need anything else? ’Kay, see you later, CP. Feel better!”
Then she bounces off the corner of the bed and is gone.
“Huh?” Christen asks the soup and gets no response.
Maybe Tobin will make more sense when her head isn’t full of fog. Doubtful, but maybe.