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Knock .
Rapinoe, who'd just turned off the TV half an hour ago, stuck her head out from under the blanket. Morgan was completely knocked out on the bed, upside-down and hugging a bathrobe like it was a plush animal.
Who would be knocking at this infernal time? Rapinoe somehow suppressed the urge to yell go away, burying her face in the pillow. She had responsibilities in this team, after all. Maybe it was one of the youngsters who'd got lost or forgot their room's keycard.
She decided to skip the, Come in, and opened the door. The late-night caller wasn't a youngster, or even Leveille. It was the player least likely to even be up at this time in the whole squad.
Alyssa Naeher.
"What the f--flick." Instinctively, Rapinoe's self-censoring turned on, even though Naeher had taught her at least five swears in the first week of the latter's arrival. For Rapinoe, censoring was only applied within the squad; according to her, reporters and journalists "deserved the truth".
"Lost your keycard, Lyssa?"
Instead of a sarcastic remark, Naeher wordlessly handed Rapinoe a piece of notebook paper. Rapinoe opened it, immediately noticing Naeher's inhumanely small handwriting.
"I swear the only time you'll write in normal script is if we give you a billboard."
Naeher stabbed her index—thank goodness—finger towards the paper. "Read the paper before I drink twenty gallons of coffee to stay awake."
You have too much sarcasm, nerve, and mouth for the pitch. You're a hot pink flamingo in a pack of fat gray elephants, sticking out like a sore thumb. You speak your mind—and then some—and you don't give an inch about the reaction, even if it's from citrus fruits in the government.
"I heard that."
"Finish reading before I pour vodka into my eyeballs."
"You need sleep."
"READ."
Your hair is unlike almost anybody I've seen. You're unashamedly you. You spy on Brazilians even though you know the population could come chasing after you with chants of "chama-se futebol". While the youngsters "secretly" binge-watch the Frozen installments under the table after dinner, you stand at the dining room door to make sure their meetings remain secret. You tolerate Peony instead of throwing her off the plane like I would. You're chaotic, weird, sentimental, crazy, protective, and a genius.
I love it all.
Alyssa
Rapinoe looked up from the letter, to its author. “You don’t want me to go, do you?”
“No.” Naeher’s voice sounded like it was about to break. Instead, she stiffened, taking the note back. “Don’t…don’t tell the others.”
With that, Naeher turned and vanished into the dark hall as if she was never there. The only evidence Rapinoe had was the note in her hand, hot pink gel pen and college ruled notepaper.
She unfolded Naeher’s goodbye letter and read the words another time. It was dry, blunt and a bit of a roast, and it was hard to know it was supposed to be a goodbye letter unless you knew Naeher well. Rapinoe was just about to go back to bed when she saw a small spot on the paper, colorless and irregularly shaped. Upon further inspection, she saw another, in the same place where the L in love had been smudged.
Rapinoe shook her head, setting the note on her bedside. She remembered something she’d heard about Naeher from a USWNT camp: stoic facade, but there’s emotions in there.