Work Text:
Break On Me
A one-shot by optimisticpizza
May 7, 2016
WASvPOR
The simple three-note whistle is the sweetest sound you’ve heard all day. There’s a certain finality to it—one you’ve been conditioned to ever since you began playing recreationally in your childhood days, back when everything was all fun and games and there was no pressure to win and no harm in losing for almost everyone but you. You? You can’t stand to lose.
“It more than sucks to lose. It’s just the worst feeling,” you’ve previously related in an interview.
First comes denial. No, it’s not true. There’s still time. Just one good play is all you need and you walk away with victory. Then comes the realization. Well crap, you lost. What now? Next, regret. If only you had finished that shot. If only you had connected that cross. If only you had saved that ball from going out of bounds. If only, if only, if only. Finally, all you’re left with is guilt. You’ve let your team down.
Coping with a loss starts in your brain, which grinds fiercely through these stages, but it doesn’t stop there. It works its way throughout your body, down to the very core of your soul and instills itself into your whole being. Not even a win the next time around can cure the overwhelming sensation that comes with a loss.
After shaking hands in the middle of the pitch, the team huddle up as Mark begins his post-game talk. It’s brief. Not much can be said right now, not like this, but you can be sure there will be much to discuss when you get back to Portland. For now, he and Meghan are pulled away for interviews, leaving the rest of you to eventually meander your way towards the bus. You don’t feel like signing autographs or taking pictures, but you do it anyway on your way to the change-room.
Inside, amidst the racket from half the team already changing, your eyes immediately flash towards the locker between Emily’s and Michelle’s. To your shock, it looks exactly like it had prior to the game, as if it had never been touched—highly uncharacteristic of its owner. The white jersey with receding black trim and Portland Thorns FC crest dangles from a hanger centered perfectly on the rod. Matching shorts and socks lie neatly folded beneath, and the yellow captain’s armband sits prominently next to the number seventeen on the shorts.
Sighing, you hastily strip out of your own Thorns attire and change into fresh clothes and tennis shoes, picking up your bag and heading out. On the way, you toss the perfectly clean kit into the laundry basket and pause, glancing upwards. Above the pile of dirty jerseys and Thorns-sanctioned gear hangs on the wall the gameday roster. Listed are all current contracted players, all but three sorted into either “Starting XI” or “Substitutes.” Sinclair, Christine and Williamson, Kat are both listed under “Injured”; your name appears as “Questionable.” You shoot a look at your left ankle, still clad in soft black padding and laced up tightly for support in the event that it might see action. A lot of good this did me, you think to yourself. In disgust you pull your shoe back off and untie the brace, flinging it forcefully into the basket. You slip your shoe back on and head towards the bus, knapsack slung carelessly across one shoulder while your other hand is stuffed deep in a pocket.
She’s sitting alone on the bus, right where she always sits, with her headphones on and eyes shut tightly. To the innocent bystander she might appear to be asleep, but you know her better than that. You offer a light swat where the thigh meets the knee, jolting her “awake.” Her head tilts as she stirs, shifting her legs to the side to grant you passage. You shuffle past her with minimal physical contact and plop down contentedly in the security of your window seat. However, when your gaze settles back on her, she’s already resumed her previous positioning.
“Tobin,” you say plainly while focusing on her lifeless form. Receiving no response, you reiterate. “Tobin.”
Her eyes flutter open as she turns to face you. For a moment her stare is blank, exhibiting no emotion—which is all you need to perceive your best friend’s mood—before she puts on a smile. “Hey.” She waits for a moment to see if you have any words, which you don’t, before continuing. “Did we lose?”
You blink, processing this question and trying to think of a sufficient answer. But no answer is sufficient enough. “No,” you settle on.
Curious enough, her face falls slightly. “Oh,” she replies simply before turning her head back to the aisle.
“Tobin,” you voice again, more or less irked at her casual regard towards you.
“Hmm?” she asks, shifting back to you, eyebrows raised.
“Are you. . . are you all right?”
She blinks. “Yeah, I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?” To sell it, she breaks out into another small grin.
You take a deep breath, wondering how to break down the barrier that she’s obviously set up. “Tobs, I’m not saying I’ve never seen you throw a tantrum like that, like you were the entire game, but the public hasn’t. Come on, talk to me.”
“Hey, I promise I’m good. Everything’s fine,” she responds, still putting on her happy, carefree appearance.
“Okay, then I’ll talk,” you state, almost heatedly now as opposed to earlier’s sweet-talk. “I know–”
A bag lands in the seat in front of you with a heavy plunk, giving you both a start. Looking up, you find Lindsey strolling towards you and are forced to place your conversation on hold. As Tobin still faces you, you bite your lip in annoyance. She tilts her head, smiling knowingly.
“Good game, Captain,” Lindsey says, offering Tobin a fist-bump before crashing into the row ahead. “Sorry we couldn’t get the win.”
“Me too, but it’s all right,” the midfielder next to you echoes, shrugging as if it were nothing. Your eyes widen in disbelief as you glare at her.
“Yeah. We’ll get ‘em next time,” the younger one continues before shoving her headphones on and turning around.
You raise a questioning eyebrow at Tobin. “Really?”
Suddenly a flood of your teammates enter the bus, each walking by to offer Tobin a simple high-five or fist-bump before taking their seats. The steady stream of athletes coming over every time you attempt to restart the conversation is almost enough to drive you over the edge, but Mark and Meghan arrive just in time and the bus begins the short journey back to the hotel.
You're not sure why you’re particularly mad about Tobin's seemingly unperturbed, unchanged attitude. Perhaps you hadn't been expecting tears rolling down her cheeks, but her acting like nothing happened irks you. And as far as anyone else is concerned, it’s as if her actions leave no consequences. But no Tobin Heath for next match, against arguably the toughest team in the league? This is a big deal and everyone is ignoring it.
Fed up with no response from your left, you pull out your phone to pass the time. After clearing notifications, you make the command decision, out of curiosity, to commit the cardinal sin: checking Twitter directly after a match. You start out just browsing through your timeline, skimming through updates from the other teams in the league, but one link leads to another and soon you're looking at everything involving your best friend. Thank God Tobin doesn't use social media often, you think to yourself, glancing over at her naturally lifeless form. The comments aren’t nasty—well, most of them aren’t–but they’re certainly dispiriting. Apparently the fans are just as unhappy as you are.
The bus arrives and you make your way up to you and Tobin’s shared hotel room, stopping for a picture with a fan during which Tobin’s still all smiles. Just as you collapse on the bed after showering, your phone buzzes with a group text message. Tobin’s gaze finally meets yours for the first time since the attempted conversation.
“Cards in Lindsey and Kling’s room?”
You shrug, still trying to analyze her. “If you’re up for it.”
“If you’re up for losing,” she retorts, the smirk on her face growing as she stands at the doorway.
It doesn’t take much to remind you and everyone else just how competitive you are. Tonight, it’s Phase 10. Half the team showed up to play, so it gets a little hectic with two decks. You should all probably be in bed, but you don’t have to be at the airport tomorrow until noon, so why not?
Allie lays down a blue seven to wrap up her turn, which is all you need. Everyone else can see it, too, as you’re beaming while picking it up and laying down a straight from three to ten, playing your green five on Mana’s run and discarding your yellow twelve to complete phase six and win the hand. Cards from every direction skitter across the floor to accompany complaints of “I just needed—” or “You had my—” whatever card to win. Meghan grumpily collects and attempts to shuffle the decks, ultimately unable and handing one off to Nadia. During the next hand, you’re two blue cards away from clearing phase eight before you see Dagny about to play a yellow nine, which you think Tobin might use to potentially win the hand, and stop her. Under duress, Dagny retracts her yellow and instead plays a red four.
“Suckers!” Tobin proclaims, drawing Dagny’s card before laying out her seven cards of one color. Playing her other three cards on Katherine’s and Lindsey’s piles, she drops a skip card, directed at you, as her final move to clear the phase and win the hand. The midfielder stands up and yawns, leaving the game prematurely and bidding you all good night. “It was red, not yellow,” she calls out as she leaves.
It takes a few more hands to find a winner, but by then it’s well past one o’clock and everyone’s just about brain-dead, so victory is yours for the taking. You trudge back to your room with your head bowed solemnly, trying to think of how to get Tobin to open up because after tonight you know she’ll just wave it off. But when you open the door, light from the hallway surges into the pitch-black room, an indication that you won’t be talking to her tonight after all. You quickly close it and shuffle your way to the far bed, praying that there’s nothing left out in the open for you to trip on. Once safely there, you slide under the comforter and exhale.
After a couple minutes of trying to sort your thoughts out, trying to relax, you return to Twitter under the covers, still exploring the same topic as earlier. Only, this time, the remarks are almost all positive and uplifting, bringing a tiny smile to your face. The smile stops when you see one from Tobin herself thanking someone for their kind note. A snippet of bitterness sneaks its way into you, causing you to huff, click your phone off, and roll over, just waiting for morning to come.
As you stir between the sheets, however, you hear a small sound, just barely audible. Straining your ears, you still yourself and are rewarded with another one similar to the first. You roll back over and listen to the consistent noise. Something about it unsettles you. While you ease out of your bed, you look over to the other bed and watch the comforter rise and fall steadily in the dark. But after closer observation, you finally link the sound and the body.
“Tobin?” you whisper.
As expected, you receive no reply. Biting your lip, you pick up the edge of the bedding and slip underneath, careful to stay on one side, propped up slightly against the headboard. A hand works its way across the mattress. Cautiously you lay your own hand on top of it. She scoots over and nestles into you wordlessly. You wrap your arms around her and draw her closer, resting her head on your chest and enveloping her in a tight embrace. A cool wetness drips onto your t-shirt while a soft tremor steadily jolts both your bodies. You fall asleep holding your best friend, your heart broken for hers.
Break on me, shatter like glass
Come apart in my hands
Take as long as it takes, girl
Break on me
Put your head on my chest
Let me help you forget
When your heart needs to break
Just break on me